


Less Than Angels

by ashitanoyuki



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ezekiel is Actually Ezekiel, Human Castiel, I got a lot of plot in my porn, M/M, Non-Consensual, canon-divergent, spnkink-meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashitanoyuki/pseuds/ashitanoyuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt at spnkink-meme! http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/78445.html?thread=28810349#t28810349</p><p>Newly human, Castiel moves in with Sam and Dean to the Men of Letters bunker. Unfortunately, his presence attracts the attention of Ezekiel, who develops a dark fascination with him. Hiding behind Sam's face and body, Ezekiel coerces Castiel into a sexual relationship, threatening to kick him out of the bunker if Castiel denies his advances. As Castiel wonders if he himself is to blame for "Sam's" actions, Sam himself is blissfully unaware of the angel inside him. Only when Dean catches wind of what's going on can they come up with a plan to get rid of Ezekiel once and for all.</p><p>Note: Canon divergent (most notably as of 9.09. This fic was well underway when "Ezekiel"s true identity was revealed, thus putting this fic somewhat in the realm of AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Less Than Angels

**Author's Note:**

> 10,000 years of thanks and praise to the original prompter! I wouldn't say this is my most polished work, but I don't think it's my worst. I do worry a bit about the ending of this fic, because I'd planned to draw it out a bit more, but it ended up coming to a close a bit more quickly than I had anticipated. That said, writing it was really fun! It's probably the least kinky/porny kink meme fill ever, but...
> 
> I debated, when 9.09 came out, reworking this so that "Ezekiel" was in fact Gadreel, but by that point I'd written the majority of the fic, and have decided to leave it as is. So it is canon-divergent, probably TECHNICALLY AU, but close enough that I have not listed it as such.
> 
> Original prompt: http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/78445.html?thread=28810349#t28810349

Something was off about Sam. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was just something strange in the way the man’s eyes flashed when he passed Castiel in the library, in the way his gaze roved over the former angel’s body when they ran into each other in the hall. Perhaps Sam had always been so intense and calculating—human perception was different from angel perception, and he may well be reading too much into the man’s behavior, but Dean and Kevin did not seem so changed.

Castiel decided after a few days that it was the after effects of the trials. The strange combination of heavenly influence and contact with the demonic would be enough to change anyone.

Once or twice, he ran into Sam leaving the bathroom or coming out of his bedroom, but surely in their close quarters, that was not unusual. Ordinarily, the events did not stick out in his head; Sam was openly as friendly as usual. He was kind enough even to keep mum about the time he had walked in on Castiel in a certain compromising position, though Castiel assumed that the lotion and tissues that had appeared in his room that evening could have only been placed there by the younger Winchester.

He slipped into human life with only a few mishaps, taking long sojourns in the library to assist Sam in research and ensure that Kevin wasn’t wearing himself out in translating the angel tablet. Dean taught him to handle a gun, and even brought Castiel along on a few routine salt-and-burn cases. If occasionally Castiel woke from a nap in the library to find that someone had covered him with a blanket in his sleep, if once or twice his neatly made bed was mussed as though someone had burrowed into it in his absence, well, that could be chalked up to the respective kindness and strangeness of humanity.

0o0o0o0o0

He would have preferred to accompany Dean on this hunt, but the elder Winchester was adamant that Castiel stay in the bunker. “Ghosts and vamps are one thing,” Dean had said, “but wendigos are a bit out of your league right now. They’re fast, they’re scary, and they can’t be reasoned with—even less than ghosts can. I really don’t want you to get eaten when you’re still missing the targets in the range almost half the time.”

Castiel had wanted to argue, but Dean was adamant that he remain safely in the bunker. It was quiet without the eldest Winchester; Crowley was locked securely away in the dungeons where his petulant whining would go unheard, and Kevin and Sam had taken to spending their days holed up in the library.

Human existence was boring, Castiel decided as he made his way into the kitchen. Long, dull stretches of time with little to do; the ever present quiet in his head that had once been filled with the chattering of his brothers and sisters. He could still lock into “angel radio,” but the knowledge that factions of his fallen siblings were out for his blood made him loathe to do so. No need to throw up any red flags towards his whereabouts.

A bag of chips in hand, Castiel turned to leave the room and ran smack into Sam’s large, broad chest. “Excuse me,” Castiel apologized, glancing up.

“Not a problem.” Sam stared at Castiel, hazel eyes fixed on his face. Castiel smiled and moved forward, only to be blocked by one of Sam’s long, muscled arms.

He frowned, cocking his head at the younger Winchester. “Is everything all right?” he asked, shivering as Sam’s eyes flashed darkly. Quickly, Sam's tongue slipped from between his lips, flicking over them almost nervously.

“Yes,” the man said, making no move to let Castiel through. “I’m just checking up on you. You’ve been here, what, three weeks?”

Castiel nodded slowly. “There have been no signs of angels all that time, right?” Sam asked, taking a step forward. Instinctively, Castiel moved back, the sharp edge of the counter pressing into the small of his back.

“I seem to be well hidden,” Castiel agreed, pushing down discomfort. What was it that Dean had always said about personal space? Maybe Sam didn’t realize how close he was standing. “Did you need me for something?”

A huff of laughter slipped from Sam’s lips. “That’s just like you, Castiel,” he said, taking another step forward, his chest colliding with Castiel’s. “Always wondering what you can do to help mankind. I really admire that.”

Castiel leaned back, his heart thudding in his chest. “Thank you?” he ventured, bemused. “If you’ll excuse—”

With lightning speed, Sam’s hand shot out, gripping Castiel’s hair and dragging his head back. “I could use your help, Castiel,” he murmured, leaning forward so that his lips grazed the former angel’s exposed throat. Castiel tensed, the bag of chips dropping from his grip. “I know this isn’t what you want. I’ve seen the way you look at Dean—I know you’d rather this was him. But he doesn’t want you that way. I do.”

“Sam?” Confusion whirled through Castiel’s mind, spiked with no small measure of fear. “What are you—”

Castiel’s eyes widened, horrified and surprised, as Sam jerked his head up and mashed their lips together. Heart pounding furiously, he shoved against that wall-like chest, struggling to free himself from Sam’s grip. “Sam,” he hissed, turning his head away from the other man, his scalp pulling painfully as Sam’s fingers tightened. “Stop it.”

“Why?” Sam pressed against him, grinding against Castiel’s crotch. Cas swallowed hard, pulse fluttering, as Sam’s evident erection pressed against him, hard and huge through his jeans. “I’ve wanted you for so long, Castiel. The way you flaunt yourself, walking around with those guileless blue eyes and that mouth made for sin—it’s about time you did something useful around here.”

Castiel was under no illusions that he was as useful as the other inhabitants of the bunker, but it was still galling to be reminded of his inferior capabilities. “I’m trying—”

Sam shushed him and pressed their lips together again, tongue swiping over Castiel’s clenched teeth, pulling away before the man could bite. “I know, Castiel. Cas,” he murmured, the soothing tone of his words at odds with his predatory gaze, with the way his hand tugged at his own fly. “I know. But it’s not enough to try. Right now, walking among us, the living embodiment of sex—you are too distracting to be useful. It's time for you to accept your place and make yourself useful in the only way you can.”

Castiel cried out as Sam shifted his grip, whirling him around and slamming his face against the counter. “Dean!” he screamed, knowing that it would do him no good—Dean wouldn’t be back for quite some time. “Kevin! Help—” A large palm covered his mouth, cutting off his yells.

“Don’t fight it, Castiel,” Sam breathed, long fingers working open the button of Cas’s jeans and slipping beneath the waistband. Castiel shivered as cool air hit his thighs, covered only by flimsy boxers. “What do you think they’d do if they heard you, anyways? They’d probably think you needed help reaching something, or figuring out how to work the dishwasher.” Sam chuckled coldly. “You’re so bad at being human,” he continued, sliding his fingers beneath Castiel’s boxers and pulling them down to his knees. “We’re all tired of it. Cleaning up after you, holding your hand through simple tasks—you’d think an angel wouldn’t need a babysitter.” Castiel shuddered, bile rising in his throat as Sam caressed his exposed ass, kneading flesh with long, probing fingers. “It’s okay,” the man crooned, easing his finger between Castiel’s cheeks to prod at his entrance. Cas jerked, biting at the hand over his mouth. Sam simply laughed, pressing lightly against his hole. “I’ve got you.”

Castiel yelped as Sam wiggled a single long digit into him, the foreign intrusion invasive and uncomfortable. “I’m going to take my hand off your mouth to get some lube,” Sam murmured, leaning forward to press a kiss to Castiel’s shoulders. He shivered at the feeling of the man’s lips, wet and greedy and so, so wrong, making his skin prickle even through the cloth of his T-shirt. “If you scream, the hand goes right back where it was, and I’ll take you dry. Got it?”

Castiel shivered before nodding once. “Good boy.” Castiel licked his lips with a dry tongue as Sam freed his mouth, legs trembling from the strain of standing bent over the counter.

“Sam, please,” he croaked, his skin crawling. “Don’t do this. I’ll be useful, I swear, I—”

“Enough.” Castiel stilled as Sam pulled open the counter above him, dragging down a bottle of olive oil and twisting off the cap. “You have a choice here, Castiel. Keep quiet and let me do this, or leave the bunker. You can’t stay here if you’re going to be the tease that never puts out.”

Leave the bunker? Throw himself upon the mercy of hordes of angry angels, each one more bloodthirsty and revenge-crazed than the last? Castiel swallowed hard. Dean wouldn’t let Sam do that, would he?

As if reading his thoughts, Sam pressed his chest against Castiel’s back, lips brushing over his ear. “You’re thinking about Dean now, aren’t you?” he whispered, words wet and menacing in Castiel’s ear. “You think he’d side with you over his own brother? Does that sound like the Dean you know?” Something cool and wet—the oil—squelched against his hole, and Cas grunted as Sam worked a second finger inside him. “You know he never would. He’d tell you to man up and deal with the consequences of parading yourself before his brother like meat before a shark.”

A tremor of fear ran down Castiel’s spine. No—no, Dean wouldn’t do that. He wasn’t like that! It was one thing to love Sam, even to prefer him, but to throw Castiel upon his mercy like a vaguely amusing toy—

A short cry slid from Castiel’s lips as a third finger breached his hole. His hands scrabbled against the counter, searching for something, anything, to give him purchase. “Sam,” he gasped desperately, a last-ditch attempt to stop this violation. “Please.”

“Sorry, Castiel.” Cool oil dribbled onto Castiel’s ass as Sam slicked up his cock and withdrew his fingers. “Maybe if you weren’t so damn tempting—”

Castiel bit down, splitting his lip with the effort to hold back a wail as Sam pushed into him, thick cock burning where it forced open muscle and skin. He panted, trembling as Sam filled him, sliding home a seemingly endless length, parting a passage that had never been used for such an act. Sam groaned, seizing his hips and digging his fingers into weak human flesh, breathing heavily. Castiel shook as Sam stilled, adjusting to his tightness. “This isn’t you, Sam,” he forced out, his voice trembling.

Sam snorted, pulling out only to ram his hips forward, grip tightening on Castiel’s hips. “You would think that, wouldn’t you,” he breathed, drawing back and thrusting forward, slamming Castiel’s hips against the counter. Castiel cried out, squeezing his eyes shut. “Want to pretend it’s some monster doing this to you, that you didn’t do it to yourself. You’re just so easy…” Castiel shook his head as Sam drove into him, thrusting deep, balls slapping against Castiel’s flesh as he set a punishing pace. “And so weak.”

Castiel slumped, his knees giving out as Sam pounded into him. Kept aloft by the man’s grip on his hips, he pushed desperately at the counter, shoving back in an attempt to force Sam off. “That’s it,” Sam moaned as Castiel impaled himself further on his shaft. “Knew you’d want it. Knew you’d see reason.”

“No,” Castiel whispered, his voice cracking shamefully. This was so wrong—so far from anything he would have expected from Sam, from himself. He struggled, throwing back his head, but instead of cracking against Sam’s nose he collided with the man’s chest. Sam shifted, releasing one hand and bringing it up to bar Castiel’s chest, holding their bodies flush together. Castiel groaned as the angle impaled him further on Sam’s cock.

Sam held him fast as he rutted up into him, short, jerky thrusts sending waves of painful sensation through Castiel’s body. Sam came with a moan, slamming Castiel’s chest to the counter and pinning him down as warm, sticky seed spilled into him.

Sam held him there for several minutes, nose buried against Castiel’s neck. Cas shivered, icy numbness flooding through his veins even as Sam’s unnaturally hot skin pressed against his legs, his ass, his back, heat seeping through multiple layers of shirts. “Made for sin,” Sam murmured, finally pulling free, his flaccid cock sliding from Castiel’s sore, aching hole. “Made for it. That was—that was perfect.” Castiel trembled as a hand caressed his ass, pulling away to leave him freezing in its wake.

Distantly, he heard Sam leave, footsteps fading from earshot as he laid against the counter. He wondered vaguely if he was in shock. That could happen to humans who underwent a traumatic experience, he knew. Was this traumatic? It had certainly felt so.

He had no desire to be caught by Kevin with his pants down, or worse, for Sam to return while he was still unclothed and bent over the counter. With shaking hands, he pushed off the counter and leaned forward to pull up his jeans and boxers, wincing as the remnants of Sam’s assault pooled against the cloth and stuck to his skin. A shower was in order. A shower, a change of clothes, and—

Would that be enough? Hazily, barely aware of his motions, he made his way to his bedroom to retrieve a change of clothes. Sam had said he was a temptation, made for sin. That he had brought this on himself. What if there was truth to the man’s words? Without thinking, he seized his baggiest pair of jeans and a ratty old T-shirt, snagged an oversized button down and old pair of boxer shorts. An unappealing outfit, something that would surely not incite lust in anyone who looked at him. And perhaps if he stopped shaving, covered his “mouth made for sin” with stubble—

No. In all his centuries observing humanity, Castiel had never heard of a human so tempting that others would be physically incapable of holding back their desires. Even Helen of Troy had not possessed such an ethereal beauty, and she had been the product of generations of cupids striving to match for physical perfection. But then, he had seen such things as an angel. Perhaps it was different for humans.

With shaky legs, he made his way towards the showers and shut the door, locking it firmly behind him. Trembling hands removed his clothes by rote memory, and he turned on the shower, setting the water to scalding heat. He would need it, to scrub this taint from his skin.

He felt marginally better for the shower, but even the warm, grounding spray did little to untwist the knots in his stomach. Sam had attacked him. Somehow, he had inadvertently set Sam upon him, parading himself like a whore before a returning brigade. He had not even been aware that Sam’s preferences ran towards men, but clearly they did—either that, or Castiel had truly been shamefully seductive, to incite such lust. He shivered. He had to figure out what he had done, so he could change it immediately. Sam would lose interest, and there would be no further problems, he told himself firmly. He would be able to remain in the bunker unmolested, and put this terrible event behind him. 

Exiting the shower, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. A long, purpling line of discolored skin ran across his abdomen where Sam had slammed him into the counter, marring otherwise smooth, tan flesh. He stared at himself, cataloguing his appearance with a critical eye. His eyes truly were a bright shade of blue, even as they shone dully back at him; he supposed that his mouth was rather well shaped, and his facial and body proportions were not displeasing. He had not chosen Jimmy as a vessel for his looks, but it seemed that his appearance was desirable to the human eye. He would not have thought it to be inducing of terrible lust, but perhaps he was mistaken. Either way, he would have to do his best to disguise his appearance, the better to avoid future incidents.

Shaking his head, Castiel dressed quickly, bundling his soiled clothes up tightly. He should burn them, get rid of any garments that would appeal to the lust-driven human eye. Yes, that was a good start. He squared his shoulders and unlocked the door, stepping carefully out into the hall.

He released a breath he had not realized he had been holding as blissful solitude greeted him. Carefully, stepping quietly to avoid drawing attention, he tip-toed back to his room, burying his clothes in the bottom of his hamper.

“Hey, Cas.” He flinched at Sam’s voice, the sudden realization that he had not shut the door hitting as hard as a blow in battle. “I’m off to get some supplies. You need anything?”

A part of him couldn’t believe Sam was being so casual; he longed to turn around and scream at the man, shove him backwards and drive his blade through his skull. But no—no, there was no need for that. It wouldn’t happen again, and surely Sam did not realize how much he had hurt Castiel. “I’m good,” he replied shortly. “Ask Kevin.”

“Gotcha.” Castiel slumped, relieved, as Sam left him alone with his thoughts. He was being foolish, certainly, but he did not think he was capable of facing Sam until he had had time to clear his head.

0o0o0o0o0

He had finally done it. Weeks of watching, a passenger in his vessel’s body, of longing for Castiel, the great general, the fallen soldier, the pariah of the Heavenly Host, and he had claimed him at last.

It had started with an innocent fascination. How could an angel possibly stand confinement to mere human existence? Even while in full possession of his powers, the loss of his wings, of access to Heaven, had cut Ezekiel to the core. It had to be even worse for his erstwhile friend and commander, cut off from the grace and power that was angelic essence.

He had not meant for his fascination to become a full-blown obsession, but the first time he had caught sight of Castiel’s naked torso, wet and shimmering from a long shower, he had felt the stirrings of an all too human lust. If he strained, he could almost see the powerful angel beneath human skin and muscle, thrumming grace peeled away and confined to a beating heart and warm mortal blood. He had been content to watch, to take Sam’s body and peer through the walls as his former brother bathed, stunningly blue eyes half-closed with contentment, olive skin rippling with every graceful motion. So peaceful in sleep, he had passed Sam’s dozing hours watching the man, creeping back to his own room when his vessel began to stir to wakefulness. And the first time Castiel had succumbed to human desire, stroking his proud erection with a delicate hand—Father in Heaven, but the once-angelic figure was the true embodiment of sin.

It was Castiel’s fault that he had fallen. Castiel, the proud, fierce warrior, so blinded by his love for humanity that he had condemned himself and his brethren to a nearly mortal existence. And bound to a human, it was only right and natural that Ezekiel would feel the carnal desire that so plagued mankind; even better that such lust would direct its attention to one of Heaven’s own. Castiel was beautiful, in grace—no, in soul—as much as in body, and if Ezekiel was to be confined to earthly existence, why not take from the offering so laid out before him?

He simply had to be careful, to be wary of Dean. Dean, the only one who knew of his existence, that he inhabited Sam Winchester. But with Dean out of the picture, he could play Castiel like a fiddle. Millennia of association with Castiel meant that Ezekiel knew his quirks, his desires, the fears he held close to his heart. It was only appropriate that Ezekiel take his newfound lust out on the object of his passions, the very man who had stricken him with an existence that would allow for such feelings.

And it was just so easy, so perfect. The feel of Castiel’s skin against his, the tense, graceful shift of his muscles as he jerked and writhed against him—the man was a drug, a temptation, a sin that begged to be committed. And with such pleas, with every twitch of his lips and crinkle of his eyes, he ensnared Ezekiel ever more firmly, drawing him into a trap of passion and want that would never leave, never abate—not until he had consumed all that Castiel had to offer and more.

0o0o0o0o0

Dean returned the next day, poking his head briefly into Castiel’s room to brag about bagging the wendigo, before heading out to catch up with Sam and check up on Kevin. Briefly, Castiel debated the merits of asking Dean if he really was just a useless distraction around the bunker, but he decided against it. Sam had said Dean didn’t see him in a sexual light, so Dean wouldn’t have noticed if he were a distraction; the idea of hearing the word “useless” from Dean’s mouth was more than he could face.

He avoided Sam as much as possible over the next few days, slipping quietly into the library when he knew the younger Winchester was asleep, pouring through book after ancient book, amassing lore that he had not possessed before and making notes of any old human methods that could be more efficient. When Sam was in the library, he would duck into the firing range and spend hours working on his aim, on his reload time. He had to be useful. He needed to prove that he was good for something, that he was worthy of remaining in the bunker as more than a decorative distraction.

Sometimes, avoiding Sam proved impossible. Each meeting sent chills crawling down Castiel’s spine, but Sam never mentioned their encounter in the kitchen. As the days dragged on, Cas found his nerves abating, settling into an uneasy mental truce with the man. Clearly, allowing his facial hair to grow out and dressing in old, formless clothes threw up some sort of barrier against the desire Sam purported to hold for him. Clearly, his attempts to make himself useful had some sort of merit. Sam would not attack him again, he reasoned, not when he was slowly proving himself to be a valuable ally once more.

Dean took him out on a routine salt and burn, accompanied by Sam. The ghost went down easy, and they celebrated with drinks in a run-down old bar. If Sam came up a little too close behind Castiel when he gave into Dean’s coaxing towards a game of pool, if the man’s crotch brushed against his ass when he bent over to make a particularly tricky shot, well, surely it was an accident. Dean would have said something otherwise, wouldn’t he?

0o0o0o0o0

“It’s angels.” Dean slumped in his chair, staring dully at the computer screen. “Eyes burnt out, bright white light through the windows before seemingly ordinary folk just up and leave—apparently, Milwaukee’s got a new fire-and-brimstone priest at one of the old Catholic churches too. Real ‘let the angels and saints in’ sort of dude.” He scowled at the computer as though willing it to refute him. “I don’t know what their angle is, but they’re on the move for something.”

“Anyone dead apart from the people they blinded?” Sam asked, leaning forward to stare intently at the screen.

“Couple of people,” Dean said tersely. “I don’t see the connection, but they’re after something. Goes across age, race, men and women—hell, looks like a couple of the vics went to the new priest’s church too.”

“Demons, perhaps?” Castiel offered, scooting closer to Dean.

“Maybe.” Dean didn’t sound convinced, tapping the table idly. “I’m gonna go check it out. You two good to hold down the fort?”

“Are you crazy?” Sam demanded as Cas opened his mouth. “You’re not going in there alone, Dean.”

Dean shook his head. “Yeah, I am,” he replied shortly. “I’m not taking the God squad’s most wanted with me, and you need to rest up.”

Sam glared at Dean. “I’m fine, Dean. I’ve been fine for weeks. Will you quit acting like the trials turned me into some kind of drooling infant?”

“Sam, come on.” Dean shot his brother a wounded look. “You’re not running at full, man. Just—just sit this one out, okay? Help Kevin with the angel tablet, keep an eye on our favorite hell bitch in the basement.”

Sam scowled, folding his arms across his chest. “You call me the second it looks like you need backup,” he ordered. “You can’t keep me on lockdown forever.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean agreed, his tone a dead giveaway that he wouldn’t call Sam no matter the stakes.

Privately, Castiel wished that Sam would press the issue and force Dean to take him along. It wasn’t that he was afraid of Sam—he had made the necessary changes, after all, and surely he would get through Dean’s absence without issue. Still, the idea of being left alone with the man left him strangely uneasy. He wouldn’t be alone, he reminded himself. Kevin practically lived in the library these days, and he could hole up in there, assisting the prophet however he could. It would all be fine.

0o0o0o0o0

He heard Sam before he saw him. The soft patter of socked feet behind him in the hallway, long legs coming closer, closer. Castiel quickened his pace, hurrying as quickly as he could. His room drew closer—fifty feet down the hall, then thirty, then ten—

Sam’s palm connected with the small of his back, slamming him into the wall. “Looks like we were both left behind,” he murmured, pressing up against him, breath hot and moist in Castiel’s ear. “Isn’t it funny how Dean asked us both to stay? It’s like he knows there’s something between us, wants to give us some alone time.”

Castiel stiffened, his heart hammering in his chest. “There is nothing between us,” he forced out through gritted teeth. “Friendship and camaraderie, perhaps, though you haven’t been much of a friend to me recently.”

“Oh, I can be a very good friend,” Sam breathed, low voice dark with twisted desire. “But you’re right. I didn’t pay nearly enough attention to your needs last time.” A large, hard hand worked between Castiel and the wall, fingers twisting at the button of his jeans.

Castiel braced himself and shoved back, forcing Sam away from him. “Stop it,” he hissed, whirling around and glaring at Sam. “How dare you presume—”

“Presume?” Sam raised a hand, grabbing for him; Castiel spun out of the way and ducked into his room, slamming the door behind him. With trembling hands, he fumbled the lock closed and leaned against the door, breathing hard.

He hadn’t done anything to provoke Sam this time—he was sure of it. Why was Sam still coming after him, then? Nervously, he rubbed his jaw, long bristles of growth scratching his palm. Unkempt and swaddled in oversized clothing, he hadn’t showered in several days, had barely slept for all the work he was putting in at the firing range. What reason could Sam have for attacking him?

Unless the excuse that he was useless and unintentionally seductive was simply that—an excuse.

The door handle rattled ominously. “Open up, Castiel,” Sam called, low voice dark, dangerous. “I’ve been playing nice with you so far. Don’t make me do something we’ll both regret.”

Castiel clenched his fists, worrying his lower lip as he thought. What could Sam do that would be worse than an attack? He could kick him out of the bunker, sure. It would be several days before Dean returned—several days in which he would be at the mercy of strangers and the elements, running and hiding from renegade angels. But he could survive for a couple of days. He could wait out temporary homelessness until Dean returned, and then he could tell Dean exactly what Sam was doing to him.

The realization that Dean might not believe his account hit hard, stunning him. Sam was Dean’s brother, his only family, so close to him that the host often referred to them as platonic soul mates. Dean would not believe that his brother would throw Castiel out without cause, and in a case of Castiel’s word against Sam’s, surely Dean would side with his own blood. The realization burned, and Castiel felt bile rising in his throat. There was no favorable outcome for him—not in such a situation. Either he would submit to Sam, or he would be thrown out to face the world and the heavenly host alone.

He felt sick as he unlocked the door, nausea churning in his gut. Sam pushed his way into the room, locking the door carefully behind him. “We can do it right this time,” the man murmured, closing the gap between them with a single stride. “None of this rough-and-tumble quickie business.” Castiel shivered as Sam raised a hand, tenderly caressing his cheek. “I can ravish you properly, slow and tender, the way you deserve.”

Castiel’s skin crawled where Sam touched him. “I do not consent to this,” he whispered harshly, glaring up at Sam.

“But you let me in,” Sam murmured, wrapping a long arm around his waist and pulling him close. “And that’s what counts.”

He expected the press of lips and clenched his teeth, determined to keep Sam out. Sam’s tongue swept over his lips, moist and warm and sickening as he fumbled at Castiel’s waistband. Castiel tensed, forcing himself to remain still. He’d let Sam do what he wanted—let the man  _violate_ him—and then it would be over. Then maybe Sam would leave him alone.

Sam took his time, stripping Castiel slowly, rubbing tender hands over his rigid body. “Relax,” the man murmured, sliding Castiel’s boxers down around his ankles. “I’m not going to hurt you. I can make this so good for you, Castiel, better than you’ve ever had.”

Castiel’s mind flashed to his paltry collection of previous sexual experiences. If it was all the same, he’d rather have another reaper than Sam. At least that experience had been marginally consensual, charade that it was.

Sam stepped back, eyes flashing as they fixed on Castiel’s naked body. He shivered, slumping forward and cupping his hands over his exposed crotch. “Don’t hide yourself,” Sam ordered, low voice taut with lust as he stripped himself of his own clothing. “I want to see everything.”

Castiel closed his eyes as Sam reached out, guiding him towards the bed. Jaw clenched, he allowed the man to lay him down, spreading him out over neatly made blankets, positioning his limbs to leave him exposed. Arms arranged at face level in surrender, legs spread, Castiel felt stripped to the core, vulnerable prey for Sam’s delight.

The barest touch ghosted over his chest, and he flinched, shaking. Bedsprings squeaked as Sam crawled over him, settling between his legs and pressing their naked bodies together. “You’re going to be good for me?” It wasn’t a question. Castiel gave a short, terse nod, fisting his hands in the sheets. “Open your eyes. I said I want to see everything, didn’t I?”

Castiel cracked open his eyes and glared hatefully at the man he had once called his friend. Sam chuckled, trailing his fingers up Castiel’s neck, across his jaw and over his lips. “Beautiful,” the man breathed, placing a soft, chaste kiss at the corner of Castiel’s eye. “You really lucked out with this body, didn’t you?” A fingertip traced Castiel’s cheek, the pad of Sam’s finger catching on his stubble. “You should shave for me next time,” Sam murmured, his other hand descending to caress Castiel’s uninterested length. “But it’s okay. Were you trying to hide your beauty, Castiel? Because you can’t. It transcends the physical.”

He had never heard Sam talk like this, and more than anything he wished that the man would stop. It was enough to be violated in body—he did not need poisonous compliments dripped into his unwilling ears. Sam’s lips quirked in a half smile. “You can touch too, if you like,” he whispered, kneading Castiel’s limp cock with the heel of his palm.

He did not want to touch Sam. Castiel swallowed back revulsion as the man’s hands and lips roamed his body, groping and kissing, sucking dark bruises across his stomach, teasing his nipples to peaks. At odds with his feelings towards the situation, Castiel’s cock began to swell, slowly thickening, a humiliating testament to his all-too human weakness. He turned his face as Sam descended over his body, slowly making his way to the apex of Castiel’s thighs.

The expected intrusion was no less uncomfortable than it had been the first time. Castiel shuddered, clenching as a single digit wormed its way into his body. “Relax for me,” Sam ordered, running his free hand down Castiel’s thigh as he wiggled and crooked his finger. Castiel exhaled, allowing his mind to float away, far from his body, from this unspeakable violation. Desperate for a distraction, he stared at his blank wall, listing the names of his still living siblings in his head, grouping them in terms of their probable alliances. Was there anyone he could pray to for help? It was risky, but dire circumstances…

Sam worked him open, lubing up a second finger, then a third. Castiel’s mind drifted, only half present, aware of the violation and his body’s appalling reaction but only partially paying attention. When Sam lubed up his cock and lifted Castiel’s hips, pushing in with one solid thrust, he switched to naming the angels he had killed. Perhaps he could imagine this as a strange sort of penance. Perhaps then this sick nausea would abate.

Sam took him gently, tenderly rocking back and forth, reaching around with a lube slick hand to tease his cock to attention. Soft sheets balled in his hands, Castiel lay limp, biting back the urge to scream, to kick and struggle away. The attack seemed to go on forever, but finally Sam stilled, release flooding through Castiel’s passage, hot and sticky and so, so filthy. Castiel moaned absently as Sam fisted his cock, jacking him to completion, but he wasn’t really there. He didn’t have to think about the shame of orgasm at the hand of the man he once called friend.

Sam pulled out and laid beside him, holding him close and stroking his hair. “See, it doesn’t have to be all bad,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the back of Castiel’s neck. “You enjoyed it, didn’t you? The evidence is all over this bed. And there’s so much more I can show you—so many experiences in this mind to draw from. You’ll see.”

Castiel shivered, closing his eyes. Sam sighed and sat up, trailing his fingers down Castiel’s back. “It’s okay. You’ll come to love it,” he declared soothingly, pushing off the bed and gathering up his clothes. “I know you will. I can make you happy like no one else—not even Dean.”

Dean. Castiel flinched, curling into a ball. He didn’t want to think of Dean now. He had always associated the eldest Winchester with safety and righteousness, but how could Dean be safe if his own brother was so determined to use Castiel in such twisted ways? He pulled the sticky, soiled top sheet over his body, relaxing only slightly when the door closed behind Sam. Father in Heaven—or wherever he was—but this was a nightmare.

He knew he should get up, should pull himself together and shower and go about his day, but he could not seem to dredge up the willpower to move. He wrapped himself in his blankets, lying miserably in the bed, until at last he could drift off, settling into an uneasy sleep, dreams marred by the slimy feel of hands crawling across his body, of a vile voice whispering venomous words in his ears.

0o0o0o0o0

Castiel had never been so relieved when Dean returned safely from a hunt as he was now. The second day of his friend’s absence he had managed to avoid Sam entirely, but on the third day the man had cornered him in the firing range and forced him to his knees, threatening him with homelessness and prayers to the angels if he dared to bite down. On the fourth day, he had forced Castiel into the shower and pressed him against the wall, massaging his tense back with mockingly sweet touches before holding him by the hair and taking him hard and fast. Castiel spent the fifth day locked in his room, safely buried by layers of blankets, but it wasn’t Sam who knocked on his door demanding entrance, but Dean.

Dean had sat beside him on the bed, face worried as he took in Castiel’s wan, exhausted face. “You all right, Cas?” he had asked, shifting awkwardly. “Kevin says he hasn’t seen you in days.”

Castiel had forced a smile, false and uncomfortable, his face stiff from the strange contortion—he had not smiled since Dean had left. “I’ve been feeling under the weather,” he had said, and it wasn’t even a lie.

Dean had clapped him on the back, saying something about human immune systems and how Cas had to take better care of himself. But he had coaxed him into the living room for a movie night and made him tomato and rice soup, for which Cas was grateful. He had hardly eaten in the past five days.

Sam had joined them for the movie, mercifully sitting several seats away from Cas. Castiel's instincts had been to glare at the man, but he doubted that Sam would try anything while Dean was in the room. He hoped so, at least. Resting his head against Dean’s shoulder, Cas had been able to focus on the movie, and when Dean wrapped an arm around his shoulders, the touch had felt anything but invasive.

0o0o0o0

“—Not sure what’s going on.” Castiel froze, standing stock still in the hallway as Sam’s voice wafted through the air, low and concerned. “He’s been avoiding me for a while now.”

“You think something’s wrong?” Quietly, Castiel edged towards the wall, peeking into the kitchen. Sam and Dean sat at the table, a glass of water in Sam’s hand and a beer in front of Dean, several large, yellowing books discarded beside them. He swallowed hard; part of him wanted to make his presence known, but he could not seem to make his legs work.

“I don’t know.” Sam sounded frustrated. “He keeps glaring at me, leaving the room whenever I come in… I wish he’d say something if I’m bothering him.”

“Dude’s human now,” Dean said, unconcerned, “and he’s not used to that. I’d probably be pissy and weird if I changed species overnight too. You ever try just asking him what’s up?”

“No,” Sam admitted. Cas clenched his fists; really? What was Sam playing at, going to Dean and—and acting as though  _Cas_ was the one doing something wrong? “Could you do it, maybe?”

Dean snorted. “Really, Samantha?” he asked dryly. “You want me to do the caring and sharing thing? That’s way more your style than mine.”

Sam huffed. “I guess you’re right,” he said.

Quietly, Castiel edged back down the hall, waiting until he was sure he was out of earshot before sprinting to his room. He wasn’t hungry anymore, wasn’t looking forward to yet another one-on-one meeting with Sam. He locked the door behind him and paced, wearing a familiar path over the floor as his mind whirled, seeking a way out of this mess.

Several long minutes passed before a knock on the door jarred his attention away from his musings. “Cas, can we talk?” No threats, no undercurrent of menace. Castiel didn’t trust it. Still, he would rather stave off the threats before they came; resigned, he unlocked the door and cracked it open.

Sam stood awkwardly in the doorway, hands jammed into his pockets. “Can I come in?” he asked, shifting as though uncomfortable.

Throat dry, Castiel pulled open the door just enough for Sam to slip inside. To his relief, the man made no attempt to close the door from prying eyes, choosing instead to lean against the open doorframe. “So, listen, I wanted to make sure you’re doing okay. With this whole human thing and all.”

Castiel nodded shortly, folding his arms across his chest. As if Sam himself hadn’t proclaimed Cas to be bad at being human, right after bending him over the countertop. “Okay,” Sam said, seemingly oblivious to the rage that seethed beneath Castiel’s skin. “You know you can tell us if something’s up, right?”

“Oh, can I?” Castiel snapped, glaring at Sam. “What brought on that change?”

Sam frowned, expression bemused. “That’s… Not a change,” he said finally. “Dude, if you’re having problems, you can come to us. Even Dean’s not so emotionally constipated that he’d brush you off. You’re our friend, Cas.”

Castiel snorted, eyes flicking to the door. Here it came; this was Sam’s favorite way to start their encounters, with proclamations of friendship.

Sam faltered, his hands twisting in his pockets. “Just… Yeah. You don’t have to withdraw, you know that, right?”

“Of course.” Any second now, Sam was going to shut the door, to advance on him and pin him to the bed, the floor, the wall. Castiel swallowed back nausea, desperately wishing that the man would get it over with.

“Okay. Good.” Sam hesitated, and then he was backing up, and the door closed, and Castiel was left blissfully alone.

That was new. Cas took a deep breath, willing himself to calm. Perhaps this was a new game. He wasn’t sure that he liked it—at least before, he had known what to expect. Still, he could not deny that he was relieved to have escaped this meeting unmolested. He shuddered and settled down on the floor, reaching for a stack of books he had moved to his room. He might as well get some reading done, do something useful in the time before Sam next came for him.

0o0o0o0o0

_Hot hands moved over his body, pinning him in place like a butterfly on the wall. Twisted words wormed through his ears, vile and cruel and so, so degrading, sending shudders of disgust down his spine. He opened his mouth to scream, and a thick, wet tongue forced its way in, suffocating him as he struggled to move._

Castiel woke with a jerk, eyes flying open to reveal his dark, empty bedroom. Thin, crackled pages stuck to his face—he had fallen asleep while reading, it seemed. With a sigh, he peeled the book from his cheek, tossing it aside. These nightmares were becoming increasingly frequent. It appeared that even in his dreams, he could not escape Sam.

Wide awake, he wondered if he dared leave the room. Hunger gnawed at his gut, reminding him that he had not been eating nearly as often as a human should. He hesitated before palming his angel blade, sliding it between his shirt and his skin.

Hyper alert, he crept down the hall, slinking into the kitchen as quietly as possible. Opening the fridge, he saw a pre-prepared plate, burger and lumpy mashed potatoes covered in crusty, pre-used plastic wrap.  _Cas,_ Dean’s sloppy handwriting read, scrawled on a scrap of paper and taped to the shrink wrap. Castiel’s lips twitched in a small smile—it was pleasing to know that Dean had thought to save him food. Perhaps the man realized that he was working hard to be of use.

He settled down at the table, plate in hand, and quietly peeled off the plastic wrap, setting it aside to wash and re-use. No need to buy more until what they already had was completely worn out—a rule that Sam had set up in some fit of environmental activism, Dean had claimed. Castiel sighed, pinching thin plastic between two fingers as he bit into the cold burger. That was the Sam he knew—not this strange, menacing monster of a man. He wanted the old Sam back.

The floor creaked, and Castiel froze, his breath stuttering. He exhaled, relieved, when Kevin stumbled into the room, eyes bleary and half-focused. “Hey, Cas,” the boy muttered, staggering to the fridge and staring at it blankly. “Up late too?”

Castiel nodded, taking another bite. Kevin was good. If Kevin was here, he’d be safe even if Sam came in. “I fell asleep reading,” he replied, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Huh.” Kevin raised a trembling hand and tugged at the fridge door, making several attempts to pull it open. Castiel rose, carefully leading the youth to a chair before pouring him a glass of water. “That’s nice. I think I remember sleep.”

Castiel shook his head, curling Kevin’s limp hand around the glass. “You should rest,” he said, busying himself with the contents of the pantry. They were sparse; down to Dean’s favorite road food and a few cheap vegetables rotting in the back. He handed Kevin a roll of crackers and settled down to finish his dinner, casting a glance at the haggard man.

“Don’t have time.” Kevin picked at the crackers, staring blankly into space. “Not with the angels running around like this. I can sleep later, right?”

Castiel sighed. “You’ll work more efficiently if you’re healthy,” he said firmly.

Kevin shrugged. “I’m too close to a breakthrough to stop now,” he argued. “I think, anyways. Something about bees? I don’t think that’s actually anything helpful itself, but it might be important in the greater scheme…”

He halfway listened to Kevin rambling on, picking his way through the rest of his burger. Finished, he cleared his plate away and helped the exhausted prophet to his feet, steering him towards his room. For all Kevin’s protests, the boy collapsed into slumber the second Castiel laid him on his bed, sprawled over blankets and mattress, snoring lightly.

Quietly, so as to not wake the sleeping prophet, Castiel slipped out of Kevin’s room and into the bathroom. Human needs were annoying, but he supposed he would adapt eventually. Having relieved himself, he squirted toothpaste into his mouth and scrubbed at his teeth, rhythmically dragging bristles across his gums until they bled.

A thud sounded out in the hall. Castiel froze, clenching his fist around the toothbrush. There was no guarantee that it was Sam, he reminded himself. None at all. It might be Dean, up for a restless nighttime stroll. It could be Kevin, sleeping patterns so wrecked that only a few minutes of rest were enough to jog him to wakefulness. It could even be his imagination.

Another thud. Castiel set his toothbrush down, swallowing hard, cold mint sliding down his throat. So, what if it was Sam? He would be fine. In all the centuries of human experience and cruelty, his own pain paled. There was nothing to worry about. He had survived each of Sam’s assaults; he could survive another.

The door cracked open, and Castiel clenched his fists as Sam stumbled into the room. “Oh. Sorry,” the man muttered, backing out. “You gonna be long? I kinda need to go.”

Castiel’s jaw clenched, rage and fear battering at the edges of his skull. Wordlessly, he pushed away from the sink, turning to face Sam. “Let me out, then,” he ordered after a moment, glaring at the huge, imposing man before him.

“Oh. Right.” Sam took a step back, a few glorious feet of space between them. Castiel squeezed out into the hall and half-sprinted to his room. He slammed the door behind him, heart hammering, blood pounding in his ears. He took a shaky breath, and another, and another; his lungs constricted and he coughed, heaving, his head spinning. No, no, no—no, he wasn’t strong enough to handle this. Not now. One night unmolested, one night free of fear—was that so much to ask?

He lost track of time as he stood pressed against the door, dread seeping through his body as he waited for Sam to push his way in. The walls seemed to breathe, pressing in on him and confining him, then drawing back, leaving him empty in a space so wide he could lose himself. The haven of his room had become a prison, a cell of trauma, filled with the memories of lust and possession and sick, demented desire.

Half-aware of his movements, he pulled open the door and crept into the hall, edging towards Dean’s room. He did not bother to knock, simply pushing open the door and closing it behind him. Dean was good. Dean was safe, or so he hoped. Some of his panic subsided as he laid eyes upon the sleeping man, peaceful in slumber as he never was when awake. Castiel sighed, sinking to the floor and curling up against the wall. He’d worry about explaining himself to the man when he woke. For now, his moment of panic had wrung all the energy from his body; he closed his eyes and relaxed, allowing sleep to overtake him, Dean’s floor more comfortable than his bed had been since the moment Sam had first laid hands on him.

0o0o0o0o0

He was warm for perhaps the first time in weeks. A low, comforting voice sounded in his ears, melding seamlessly into the abstract dreams that whirled through his mind. Castiel sighed, stretching as he wandered into wakefulness, his eyes cracking open to meet an expanse of green. Startled, he sat up, Dean’s face coming into focus as he blinked up at him.

“Well, good morning.” Dean sounded amused. “Any reason you’re sleeping on my floor instead of in your bed?”

Castiel frowned, his mouth falling slack as he searched for an appropriate explanation. “I was uneasy in my room,” he said finally. It was the truth, technically.

The corners of Dean’s eyes crinkled fondly. “Seriously? Dude, you’ve got one of the nicest rooms in the bat cave,” he teased, clapping Castiel on the shoulder. “Cabin fever?”

“Perhaps.” Castiel pushed himself to his feet, briefly towering over Dean before the man moved to stand himself. “It has been a while since I went outside,” he added, for lack of a better explanation.

Dean nodded. “Want to help me out on the next hunt?” he asked. “I know I just got back, but I’ve been a bit itchy myself. Too many baddies out there, not enough people putting them down, you know?”

Castiel nodded. A hunt—yes, anything that would get him out of this prison without throwing him upon the mercies of the world. “Will Sam be accompanying us?” he asked casually, hoping that the question sounded innocuous.

Dean shook his head. “Nah. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad he’s feeling better, but I don’t like him leaving the bunker too often. His batteries still need recharging.”

Castiel sagged slightly, relieved. “That makes sense.”

Dean grinned. “Besides, Kevin says you’ve been putting in some serious hours in the firing range. Sounds to me like you could stand to put that work into practice.” He pulled open the door, motioning for Cas to follow. “So, word on the street is there’s a couple of shapeshifters raising hell out in Oregon. You remember how to take down shapeshifters?”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Silver,” he replied dryly.

“Good man.” Dean stopped outside Sam’s door, and a spike of fear shot through Castiel’s chest. “Sammy!” Dean yelled, banging on the door. “I’m taking Cas out on a hunt. You good to hold down the fort for a few days?”

A muffled groan sounded through the walls. “Eh, we’ve got phones if he gets into trouble,” Dean said, turning to face Cas, a shadow of a grin gracing his face. “Good to go?”

“Yes.” Especially if it would get him away from Sam’s room. Castiel breathed much easier for leaving the bunker, and on the road with Dean, he could finally relax, letting his nerves and shame slide away so he could focus on the job at hand.

0o0o0o0o0

“That was damn stupid of you,” Castiel snapped, berating Dean as he hauled the man into their shabby little motel room. Ratty curtains pulled closed, he stripped the man of his bloody shirt and prodded at the deep gouges in his side.

“Eat me, Cas,” Dean muttered, wincing. “I had to get close to knife the mothers. Not my fault that one bitch had claws.”

“I had her under control,” Castiel reprimanded, digging the first aid kit out of Dean’s duffel. He closed his hand around a bottle of whiskey, pulling the cork out with his teeth. “Breathe in,” he ordered, waiting for the man to acquiesce before pouring the light amber liquid over his seeping wounds.

Dean hissed, clenching his jaw. Castiel winced sympathetically, threading a needle and pushing Dean down onto the bed. Carefully, he lined the needle up with the worst of the four gouges, carefully stitching it shut and stemming the blood flow.

“Your bedside manner could use some work,” Dean muttered, squeezing his eyes shut. “Try channeling some sexy, fawning lady nurse. It makes everything so much more pleasant.”

“I am not play-acting that mindless television show of yours,” Castiel replied coldly.

Dean grunted. “Damn. I wouldn’t mind me some Doctor Piccolo right now,” he complained, twitching as Castiel moved onto the second cut. “Or some—augh—or Doctor Sexy himself. You should try cowboy boots, Cas. Bet you could rock the look.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, tying off the thread and snipping it before moving to the third gash. “I think you hit your head when I wasn’t looking,” he remarked dryly.

“Nah, I’m good.” Dean groaned as Castiel moved onto the final gouge. “Seriously, though. You, cowboy boots, it’d be pretty hot. You’d have chicks dropping their panties for you right and left.”

Castiel grimaced. ‘Hot’ was not a look he particularly cared to aim for. “I think I’ll save the panty dropping for those better suited to it,” he replied, tying off the final knot. “You’re all set,” he added, pouring a dash of whiskey over the needle and flicking open a lighter to sterilize it, and then tucking it back into the first aid kit.

“Dude, you’re plenty suited to it.” Dean licked his lips and reached for the bottle. “Gimmee,” he ordered when Castiel pulled the whiskey out of his grasp. “I just got clawed by a crazy bitch. If that doesn’t scream ‘I need a drink’ then I don’t know what does.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, but passed over the bottle. “Be careful. You lost a lot of blood.”

“Yes,  _dad,”_ Dean said snippily, taking a large gulp from the bottle. “I’ve never had a drink before in my life. Golly gee, I just might have a hangover in the morning.”

“There’s no need for your sarcasm.” Castiel stuffed the first aid kit into the duffel and turned back to Dean, swallowing hard as the man tilted his head back, exposing his long, tanned throat, golden stubble catching the room’s dim light, glinting with an ephemeral shine.

Dean snorted. “Don’t try to ban my personality here, Cas,” he groused. “I was looking forward to hitting the bars after this job. Guess that’s gonna have to wait until tomorrow.”

“You think?” Secretly, the idea that they might stay an extra night in Oregon pleased Castiel to no end. Another night spent away from Sam was a good night in his books.

“Well, unless my babysitter’s gonna let me go out tonight—”

“Absolutely not,” Castiel said firmly.

Dean shrugged. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

They sat in comfortable silence for several long moments. Castiel relaxed, slouching forward on the bed, sneaking the occasional glance at Dean’s bare chest. Lean and well-muscled, he admired the contrast of inky tattoo against golden skin, dark in comparison to Dean’s inherent brightness. He could get used to the sight, he realized, and quickly shut that thought down. “You should put on a shirt,” he said awkwardly.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, but he made no move to get up.

Castiel fidgeted, finally leaning over and pulling a clean T-shirt from the duffel. “Come on,” he coaxed, helping Dean sit up and handing him the garment. “This shouldn’t irritate your stitches.”

Dean took the shirt, absently running his hands over the soft fabric. “You ever think about what’s gonna happen after we get this whole angel mess sorted out?” he asked abruptly. “I mean, when you’re re-winged and all. Are you going to go back to heaven?”

Castiel sighed, glancing at his hands. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I’m not exactly the most popular member of the host right now.”

“Yeah, that, and—I don’t know, man, it’s kind of nice having you around.” Dean cleared his throat. “I mean, yeah you’ll be able to hear us pray to you, so it’s not like you’ll be completely cut off, just… I don’t have to worry so much when I know where you are. You’re always off fighting cosmic battles, and it’s good you know you’re safe for once, you get me?”

Castiel’s lips twitched. “Here I thought discussions of feelings weren’t your forte.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “And with that, I’m done,” he declared, leaning forward shoving Cas lightly. His hand lingered on Castiel’s shoulder, an unconscious parallel to the first time Castiel had gripped him, pulling him from the depths of Hell to ascend back to humanity.

Castiel swallowed hard, looking up. He opened his mouth, words dying on his tongue. Dean’s eyes glittered, fondness and something that Castiel could not quite place shining in his gaze.

Slowly, Dean tightened his fingers and pulled Castiel the barest inch around, his face descending ever closer. Castiel barely dared to breathe as Dean brushed his lips chastely against Castiel’s, a crackle of frission and longing passing between the two. Carefully, Castiel leaned into the kiss, twisting his shoulders and allowing his fingers to pass over Dean’s side, his fingertips igniting where they came in contact with warm, smooth skin.

As quickly as the kiss had come, Dean pulled away, eyes huge, pupils blown. “I—shit,” he muttered, his hand falling from Castiel’s shoulder. “Shit. I—I’m sorry, Cas. I can’t.”

“Dean?” Castiel’s heart plummeted as he reluctantly pulled his hand away. Of course. Dean did not want him in that manner—he knew that.

“Damnit.” Dean slumped forward, burying his face in his hands. “I shouldn’t have done that. You’re—you’re my best friend, Cas. I don’t want—”

“I understand.” Castiel bowed his head, scooting backwards, sheets pulling tight in his wake. “You look for warm bodies and close contact after your hunts, and here I am. I know it did not mean anything.”

Dean shook his head. “Jesus, Cas, you really think that?” he asked, his voice cracking. “It’s not that. I mean, yeah, I like hooking up after hunts, but—man, you’re an  _angel._ Maybe not right now, but you’re supposed to be. And I’m just a normal, run of the mill guy. Hell, I’m a normal guy whose own brother doesn’t know he likes dudes as well as chicks. I thought—it doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

Castiel frowned, tilting his head. “I would not consider you to be normal any more than I would consider myself to be the embodiment of all that an angel ought to be,” he said slowly.

A bark of laughter slipped from Dean’s lips. “You’re right. I’m way more screwy than normal,” he muttered, rubbing his temples.

“That’s not what I meant.” Carefully, fully expecting Dean to pull away, Castiel laid his hand on the man’s bare shoulder. “You are a good man, Dean Winchester. A righteous man. Even your failings have stemmed from the desire to do the right thing.”

Dean glanced up, his bright green eyes haunted with specters Castiel could not hope to place. “Yeah, well, adding ‘corrupted an angel’ to my resume is still a bad idea,” he mumbled, even as he leaned into Castiel’s touch.

Castiel shook his head. If any angel was already to be considered corrupted, it was him. “It’s a bit late for that,” he remarked dryly.

“Shit. Yeah, Anna,” Dean muttered, sagging.

It was not what Castiel had meant, but he supposed Dean would see it that way. “It is a fallacy to believe that the physical corrupts,” he explained. And if the physical corrupted, then he was already damned.

Dean’s lips quirked, a tiny smile gracing his face. “Still. I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

Castiel nodded, squeezing Dean’s shoulder before pulling away. “I understand. And I cannot blame you for holding regrets.”

Dean nodded. “I don’t regret it, though,” he blurted out. “I should. I know that. I—I want you, Cas. Have for a while. But it isn’t fair to you, pushing something physical with everything else that’s going on.”

He was talking about Castiel’s fall from grace. That had to be the case; surely he was not alluding to the all-too-physical nature of Castiel’s recent interactions with Sam. “Well, then, don’t push,” he advised.

Dean gulped, his throat fluttering slightly. “You’re not mad,” he said after a long pause. “Did you—I don’t know, did you like it?”

“The kiss?” Well, it was a step up from his previous kisses—a demon, a reaper, and Dean’s own brother. Had he liked it? It was certainly pleasant, none of the dark, malevolent undertones that marred his past experiences. “Yes, I did,” he said after a moment’s thought.

Dean sighed. “I’ll be honest, Cas, I—I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he said shakily. “I just don’t know if this is a good time. The angels running around, and Sam’s still messed up from the trials…”

Castiel flinched at the mention of Sam. Oblivious, Dean continued. “If I want something with you, and man, I do—I just don’t know if now’s the best time.”

Castiel nodded. “That makes sense,” he said quietly.

“Okay.” Dean nodded, steadying himself. “Okay. Good. Rain check on this whole kissing thing, then? Nothing changes?”

He wasn’t sure that he could promise that nothing would change. Dean had kissed him. Dean had admitted to having feelings for him. Still, as much as he would like to change the direction of their relationship from simple friendship to something more, Castiel could understand that now was not the best time to put a romantic spin on their dynamic. “Of course, Dean,” he agreed.

“Good.” Silence pervaded the room—not quite awkward, but not an easy quiet either. “Well, time to hit the hay,” Dean said finally.

Castiel nodded and rose, smoothing the sheets for the sake of giving his hands a task. “I will take the other bed,” he said. “You shouldn’t be moving until your stitches have settled.”

“I’ve had worse,” Dean replied, waving a careless hand. “Rest up. We’ll head back in the morning.”

“I thought you wanted to check out the bars,” Castiel said, frowning.

Dean shook his head. “Nah, we should get back to the bunker. I don’t like leaving Sam alone for so long.”

Castiel shuddered. So much for an extra day of peace. But what could he say that would not arouse Dean’s suspicions? “Very well. The morning, then.”

“Yep.” Dean burrowed under the covers, wincing as his stitches pulled. “Night, Cas.”

“Good night, Dean.” Limbs heavy with exhaustion and trepidation, Castiel made his way towards the other bed, kicking off his shoes and crawling beneath the covers. At least tonight he could sleep easy, he assured himself. He would worry about Sam tomorrow.

0o0o0o0o0

The drive back to the bunker was too short, Castiel thought. He took as much time as he could helping Dean unload the Impala, bringing their duffel bags and several of the guns inside, and even that was over much too quickly. He managed to coax Dean into the library for research and sat between him and Kevin, pouring over books, relishing the safety that came with the presence of the others.

Of course, he knew it wouldn’t last. He stiffened when Sam poked his head in, gaze boring through Castiel, a small smile playing over his lips. “Castiel, can I borrow you for a bit?” the man asked innocently, predatory stare roving over Castiel’s chest.

He could refuse, but that would raise suspicion. Maybe suspicion was all right. Maybe if Dean realized something was going on, if Castiel told him, this nightmare would end. Sam was wrong about Dean’s feelings for him, after all; there was a chance that the man was also wrong about the reaction Dean would have towards this situation. Was it a risk he was willing to take? Sam’s lips tightened, glaring at Castiel as he hesitated; slowly, Cas stood, edging around the table. “I’ll be back,” he said quietly, a slight tremor running through his voice.

If Dean noticed, he didn’t say anything. “Yep. See you in a bit,” the man said, waving absently. His heart lead in his chest, Castiel edged out of the room, shaking as he followed Sam down the hall.

Sam led Castiel into his room and shut the door, locking it behind him. “I missed you,” the man breathed, pushing Castiel against the door and pressing their lips together, his tongue playing across sensitive flesh. “We’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.”

Castiel swallowed hard, limp and unresisting as Sam stripped him, suckling dark marks across his collarbone and down his chest, sinking to his knees as he pulled Castiel’s jeans down around his ankles. Castiel shivered as cool air brushed over his skin, an unpleasant contrast to the wet heat of Sam’s mouth. Sam’s lips worshipped him through the thin fabric of his boxers, teasing his uninterested length to semi-hardness. “Get on the bed,” Sam ordered, stripping his own shirt off as he stood.

Castiel’s legs shook as he made his way towards the bed, each step a heavy blow to his mind, his sense of well-being. At Sam’s pointed look, he laid his body over the mattress, quivering as the man’s stare stripped through him, leaving him weak and vulnerable. Sam stalked forward, jeans rippling over powerful legs, towering over Castiel as he gazed upon him. “Look at you,” the man murmured, gripping one of Castiel’s wrists with a powerful hand and drawing it up over his head. Castiel flinched as Sam pulled off his belt, wrapping it tight around Castiel’s wrist, tying it to the headboard.

His breath coming in short, desperate gasps, Castiel pulled at the thick leather restraint. “Sam,” he pleaded as the man pulled open his bedside drawer and withdrew a length of rope, wrapping it tightly around Castiel’s other wrist. “You don’t have to tie me up. Please. I—I’m not going anywhere.”

Sam smiled, securing Castiel’s arm above his head and wrapping large, warm hands around his hips, pulling him down so that he was stretched out and exposed. “I know,” the man murmured, pressing his lips to the waistband of Castiel’s boxers. “But you’re just so beautiful like this. Laid out for the taking, wholly  _mine._ Lift up.” His fingers dug in painfully, dragging Castiel’s hips off the bed. Castiel gritted his teeth as Sam pulled the boxers from his body, tossing them aside and settling between his legs.

Without taking his eyes off Castiel, Sam wiggled out of his own pants, kicking them aside and pressing Castiel into the mattress. With an open mouth, Sam trailed wet, teasing kisses over his throat, grinding his crotch hard against Castiel’s reluctant erection. A whine slipped from Castiel’s lips as dry, heated flesh dragged against him, teasing out an unwilling reaction. He squeezed his eyes shut, holding back tears that threatened to fall.

Sam kissed his way down Castiel’s body, lips closing over the head of his engorged cock. Instinctively, Castiel bucked up into that wet, consuming heat. Sam’s hands pressed down on his hips, holding him fast to the bed as he worried the sensitive flesh, dragging his tongue over Castiel’s slit, lapping up precome and sucking hard in time with Castiel’s desperate twitches.

He panted, tears leaking out from shut lids as Sam drew back. “Mine,” the man whispered, pressing against Castiel as he drew a bottle of lube from the bedside drawer. Castiel shook his head, drawing in a shuddering breath. His hips left the bed as Sam drew him up; slick fingers brushed his skin as the man lubed his engorged cock, a single fingertip playing with Castiel’s rim.

Castiel’s eyes flew open, a pained cry bursting from his lips as Sam pushed slowly into his tight, unprepared hole. “No,” he sobbed, pain burning through his lower body as the man’s cock split him open, forcing its way past muscle to bury deep inside him.

“Yes,” Sam grunted, sheathing himself fully in Castiel’s body. “This is mine,” he breathed, thumbing Castiel’s tight, stretched rim. “These are mine.” A wet finger trailed over his sack, wandering up to brush his hard shaft. “This is mine. These—” he lifted his hand and hovered over Castiel’s nipples, coming down and pinching hard, working them to peaks. “These are mine. This is mine.” His hand trailed up Castiel’s chest and neck, coming to rest over his lips. “All of you—all of you belongs to me.”

Castiel did not bother to hold back his sobs, shuddering and weeping as Sam pulled out slightly and thrust back in, rocking steadily, his hands roaming Castiel’s body and coming to rest on his hips. His vision swam as Sam thrust, burning deep inside him with every motion. Sam’s fingers squeezed and relaxed, leaving bruises along his sides; the man pressed him flat to the bed, rutting against him. “Let me see those eyes,” the man murmured when Castiel turned his face, withdrawing a hand from his hips to grip his chin, forcing Castiel to meet his gaze. “That’s it. Fall apart for me,” he breathed, driving forward and spilling into Castiel’s body.

Cas shook, miserable and terrified. Sam made no attempt to move, wiggling his hand between their bodies, leaving Castiel’s hip bruised and aching as he wrapped his hand around the former angel’s half-hard cock. “Don’t you dare look away,” he murmured, softening cock slipping out of Castiel’s hole as he shifted, forcing Castiel’s hips high, high off the bed. “I want to see you come apart for me.”

“Sam, please,” Castiel moaned, nausea churning in his gut as the man fisted his erection. Don’t make me do this, he wanted to say. Don’t make me enjoy this.

“It’s okay,” Sam crooned, his hand sliding over Castiel’s length, sending shocks of sick, unwanted pleasure rolling through Castiel’s body. “I’ve got you. I will take care of you.”

Castiel bit his lip, sagging back against the pillows as Sam stroked his cock, moving fast, unrelenting as pressure built in his abdomen. Building and building, it was too much, and he couldn’t hold back. The tang of blood filled his mouth as his orgasm ripped through him and his teeth closed hard on his lower lip, biting back a moan, a sob, a cry of pleasure and misery.

He trembled through the aftershocks of his orgasm, staring at Sam through hazy, tear blinded eyes. The man smiled, releasing his cock and bringing a cum-stained hand to Castiel’s lips. Bile rose in Castiel’s throat as some of the thick, bitter liquid slid into his mouth, coating his tongue. “It’s good to have you back,” Sam murmured, kissing Castiel’s slick mouth, tongue darting out to lick the remnants of ejaculate from his lips.

He did not move as Sam untied him, leaving him limp on the bed. Sam dressed quickly and retrieved Castiel’s clothes from the floor, lifting his limbs, sliding his legs back into his boxers and jeans, sitting him up and pulling his arms through his shirt sleeves. When Castiel was dressed, Sam hefted him off the bed, setting him down on the floor. Castiel jumped as one of Sam’s large, powerful hands groped his ass, pushing him towards the door. “Let’s not let Dean get suspicious,” he breathed, kissing the back of Castiel’s neck. “You don’t want him to throw you out, do you?”

Castiel quivered, jerking free from Sam’s possessive touch. Wordlessly, he fumbled open the latch on the door and stumbled down the hall to the shower. The warm spray, the glorious water pressure—none of it helped. He scrubbed and scrubbed, washing the taint of the encounter from his skin, but he could not remove the sick ghosts of phantom hands crawling over his skin, or the twisted memory of build-up and release at the whim of his assailant.

Outwardly clean, inwardly wrecked, Castiel wrapped himself in a thick, fluffy towel and sank to the bathroom floor. His hands curled around his shirt, which he seized and drew to his chest as he struggled to draw breath. Oxygen seemed to escape him; no matter how he gasped for air, his head spun and his lungs felt tight. He needed to get up, to go to his room or the library or the firing range, but his legs refused to respond to his commands. Dark spots danced before his eyes, clouding his vision as the room compressed around him, creeping ever closer, boxing him in.

Castiel leaned against the wall, allowing his hands to fall slack against cold tiles. Darkness encroached upon his vision, and he relaxed, allowing his tight, desperate lungs to draw in pure exhaustion. He would move later; there was no way he was getting up now. He shivered, closing his eyes and allowing sweet, blissful unconsciousness to overtake him, sweeping him away to a dream world where all was clean, all was light, and no one could lay a hand on him.

0o0o0o0o0

“Cas. Cas!” A rough hand gripped his shoulder, shaking him hard. Castiel groaned, drawing away from the contact, curling tightly into a ball. “Come on, Cas, wake up!”

It sounded like Dean. Was it Dean? Blearily, Castiel cracked open his eyes, squinting as harsh, bright light flooded his vision. He blinked, Dean’s face coming into focus, his lips taut with worry, bright green eyes glinting with concern.

With a groan, Castiel sat up, goose bumps riddling his legs where they pressed against cold tile. The damp towel slipped from around his shoulders; Castiel grabbed it, pulling it tight across his chest. “I’m fine,” he said before Dean could say anything. “The water must have been too hot. Temperature differences can cause light-headedness—”

“Shut it,” Dean ordered, pulling Cas to his feet. “Come on. We need to talk.”

That sounded ominous. Castiel swallowed hard, too aware of the iron clench in his stomach. He allowed Dean to lead him into his room, limbs quivering with exhaustion. Dean shut the door, and he sank to the floor, worming his fingers through the soft fabric of the towel.

Dean puttered around, pulling a blanket off his bed and tossing it to Castiel. Soft and dry to the touch, the blanket was everything his towel was not. Castiel wrapped the blanket around himself, discarding the towel. He stared at his lap, noting the contrast between his tanned hands and the mottled, discolored skin circling his wrists. He wished Dean would leave, let him sleep just a little while longer. Or perhaps Dean would wrap him in a solid embrace, soothing away the cares and worries that had come to plague the nightmare of his waking existence.

Dean settled beside him on the floor, a muscle twitching in his throat. Carefully, he reached for Castiel’s hand, pulling his arm away from his lap. Castiel winced as Dean fingered his wrist, the calloused pad of his fingertip just on the edge of painful where it pressed against swollen skin. “What is this?” the man asked, his face unreadable as he glanced up, meeting Castiel’s eyes.

Cas gulped. Stupid. He should have forced himself to walk, to dress, to hide his marks. “It’s a bruise,” he said softly, tearing his gaze away from Dean’s face.

“No shit.” Dean tugged the blanket down slightly, exposing Castiel’s chest. “And these?”

Castiel glanced down. Mottled red marks spread across his torso, marring his collarbones, his chest, his stomach. “It—” He swallowed hard, his throat dry. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Really.” Dean’s flat, toneless voice rang painfully in his ears. “’Cause those look like hickeys. And those bruises on your wrists look like ligature marks—the kind you fought against too. I’m not exactly someone who’s got any right to judge you about who you’re sleeping with or what kind of sex you’re having, but those weren’t there last night. Hell, your wrists were fine a couple hours ago. And unless you’ve got your angel mojo back, you haven’t exactly had time to go out and hook up with someone.”

Castiel sucked in a breath, willing his heart to cease its loud, fast pounding, to no avail. This was it. He—he had tried so hard to keep this from Dean, to hide his shame, to avoid the man’s inevitable decision that his brother was of the greatest value—it was all for nothing. All because Castiel had been too stupid, too weak, to drag himself from the bathroom into his bedroom to dress. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, for lack of anything else to say.

“Sorry?” Dean demanded, his voice cracking. “Cas—who did this?”

Castiel shook his head, pulling his hand from Dean’s unresisting fingers. “Please, Dean, just forget about it,” he begged, tugging the blanket back over his chest, hiding his shame beneath soft tan wool.

“Did you—are you hurt?” Dean asked. “Did you, you know, want it? I mean, not judging, but…”

Castiel drew in a trembling breath and shook his head. “Please don’t throw me out,” he whispered, clenching his fists around the blanket.

“Throw you—where the hell did you get that idea?” Dean demanded.

“Sam.” The word slipped from Castiel’s lips before he could stop it; he froze, his heart pounding, blood thrumming in his ears.

There was silence for a long moment, the only noise in the room Castiel’s harsh, rattling breaths. “Sam?” Dean asked finally, his voice low, smaller than Castiel had ever heard it. “Sam did this to you?”

He wanted to disappear, to slink into the walls and burrow in solitude, where he would never have to face Dean, never have to face his shame. “Please, Dean. It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t—fucking hell, Cas, of course it matters!” Castiel flinched as Dean pounded his fist against the floor. “What the hell… Okay. Okay. You need to tell me what happened. We’ll get this sorted out, Cas—I promise.”

Castiel shook his head. “I can’t,” he said tightly.

“Why not?” Dean demanded.

“Because it was my fault!” Castiel burst out angrily. “I should have stopped it. I should have done something to ensure that this didn’t happen, and I didn’t. Weeks, Dean, I’ve had weeks to fix this, and I have not been able to. And if it’s a choice between suffer through this and be sent back out into the world, then I will suffer through.”

He flinched as Dean laid a trembling hand on this shoulder. “No one’s sending you anywhere,” Dean said gruffly. “No one. No matter what. Cas, please, just tell me what happened. I can fix this—I swear, I can fix this, but you need to tell me what’s going on.”

He was not sure if the sinking feeling in his chest came from the shame of being forced to bare his weakness to Dean, or if it came from the certainty that doing so would lead the man to renege on his reassurances. “You went on that wendigo hunt a few weeks ago,” Castiel said finally. “Sam came to me. He told me to make myself useful, and he—” he swallowed hard. “Apparently, I am a distraction, rather than an asset. It is not of import. He has been making use of my body ever since that night.”

Dean cursed, pulling away from Castiel. “No. No. Sam wouldn’t—no, Sam wouldn’t do that,” he said, stumbling over his words.

Castiel bowed his head. He had expected that Dean wouldn’t believe him, he reminded himself, and still the outright denial, the rejection of his words and testimony, cut him to the core.

“Cas.” He glanced up, staring dully at Dean. “I—shit. I’m not saying you’re lying. I’m saying Sammy would never do that. That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

Castiel frowned, dropping his chin. “I do not understand,” he muttered quietly.

“Shit.” Dean scrambled to his feet, jamming his hands into his pockets. “I need to go talk to Sam. I’m gonna sort this out, Cas. Stay here, and don’t let anyone in. If—if I can’t find Sam, if he tries to get in, don’t let him. I’ll be back, I—shit. Just—stay here.”

Castiel nodded, staring listlessly at the floor. Dean left him, shutting the door firmly, and Castiel knew that he should reach for the lock, but he was just too tired to move. He did not understand how Dean could be so adamant that Sam would not take advantage of him while still acknowledging that such an act had happened. It made no sense; it was a blatant contradiction, and he was far too drained to think on the implications further. Exhausted, he leaned against the wall, trailing his fingers absently over the blanket as he waited for Dean to return.

0o0o0o0o0

Adrenaline raced through Dean’s veins as he stormed through the bunker, guilt gnawing at his insides. He’d fucked up. There were no words to describe how badly he’d failed Cas, how badly he’d failed Sam. He had let a monster into his brother’s body.

He pushed past Kevin, making his way to the bookshelves where his brother stood, perusing dusty titles and old scrolls with a keen eye. “Hey, Sam,” he said, tapping his brother on the shoulder. Sam looked up, brow furrowed as he took in the tense expression on Dean’s face. “I need to talk to you.”

“Sure,” Sam said, sliding a particularly large tome back into place. “What is it?”

Dean glanced over at Kevin, who watched the two of them with vaguely interested eyes. “Alone,” he said abruptly, grabbing Sam’s shoulder and steering him out of the room.

Sam followed him into the kitchen, sitting when Dean gestured and accepting a cup of lukewarm tap water. Dean busied himself with the fridge, pulling out a beer as he worked up the guts to join his brother at the table. “You doing okay?” he asked abruptly, cracking the tab of the can and taking a long swig.

Sam frowned, crossing his arms. “I’m fine, Dean,” he replied irritably. “Hell, I’m great. Went for a run this morning, hit the bulls eye every shot in the firing range.”

Dean nodded, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. “Good. That’s good. Any blank spots? Losing time, ending up places without knowing how you got there?”

Sam’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly; he glanced down at his hands, a muscle twitching in his throat. “Yeah,” he said after a short pause. “Sometimes. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.”

Oh, it was definitely something to worry about. Dean downed another long gulp of beer, his hands shaking. “Yeah, it is,” he said, staring resolutely at the scuffed can in his palm. “I fucked up, Sam. I let—”

“I would not do that, Dean.”

Dean did not have to look up, to see the blue flash in his brothers eyes, to know that Ezekiel had knocked him out and seized control. “You goddamn—” He glared up at the angel, his hands curling into fists. If the—the thing wasn’t housed in his own brothers body, he’d owe him a serious beat-down. “I heard what you did to Cas, you bastard,” he spat furiously. “What the hell kind of angel are you?”

Ezekiel regarded him coldly, proudly lifting his chin. “A fallen one,” he said coldly, “through no fault of my own. Castiel dragged me down to earth along with the rest of the host. He’s lucky that I am the only angel who knows where he is. My other siblings would not be so kind to him.”

“Kind?” Dean demanded furiously. “You’ve been  _raping_ him, you sick son of a bitch.”

“I am taking reparations for the indignity that was forced upon me,” Ezekiel replied steadily. “I do not expect that a human would understand. Castiel was the captain of my garrison. My own commander answered to him. I followed him even when he went rogue, slaughtering angels left and right, and for what? To be cast down with the rest?”

“You—” Dean took a sharp breath, fury pounding through his veins. “That wasn’t Cas’s fault,” he snarled, crushing the can in his hand, beer oozing over his fist. “He was tricked and betrayed just like the rest of you. You’re not getting reparations, you’re terrorizing him!”

“As Castiel terrorized Heaven when he proclaimed himself God?” Ezekiel rose, towering over Dean. “No. This is fitting. I am taking what I am owed; this is my pound of flesh. Be grateful that I have not given him over to the others to take their payment from him.”

Dean breathed hard, pushing back from the table. “Get out,” he ordered, low voice taut with fury. “Get out of my brother. Get out of the bunker.”

Ezekiel’s lips twitched, a scornful smile playing across his face. “If I leave, Sam dies,” he reminded Dean.

The indignity, the flat horror of the situation—Dean glowered at the angel. “You’re not healing him, are you?” he asked angrily. “You’re leaving him dead inside so that I have to let you stay.”

Ezekiel shrugged, powerful shoulders rolling carelessly. “Perhaps you are not just the brute muscle the angels believe you to be,” he jibed. “It’s true that I could heal Sam in an instant. I have the strength to do so now. But if we’re being honest, I quite like it here. Sam’s body is well suited to my purposes.”

“And what are those? Torturing Cas?” Dean demanded.

“Torturing, no.” A cool smile played over Ezekiel’s otherwise calm face. “I have been quite gentle with him. Truly, it is more than he deserves. Still, I will make you an offer.” He leaned forward, eyes glinting with dark malice. “I will stay in Sam. The arrangement that I have with Castiel will continue, and you will not tell him of my presence here. Or I can heal Sam and leave, but when I go, I will take Castiel with me. I will have him regardless of your feelings on the matter, or Sam dies.”

Dean swallowed hard. “You’re one sick son of a bitch,” he growled, taking a step back.

“Perhaps,” Ezekiel offered carelessly. “Just know that Castiel is the one who made me this way. Now, Dean. Which option will you pick?”

He couldn’t let Sam die. That choice was off the table, leaving the two Ezekiel had offered, and neither was one that Dean could risk. He clenched his jaw, thinking hard. He couldn’t let Ezekiel run off with Cas, but if he forced the angel to leave, there was no way he could stop him. Not when Ezekiel knew the exact location of the bunker and could return at any time, probably with a squad of angry angels all thirsting for Cas’s blood. “Fine,” he snapped, breathing hard. “You can stay.”

“I thought so. And Dean?” Ezekiel leaned forward, laying a large hand on this shoulder. “This conversation does not make it back to Castiel, or your brother will be dead within minutes.”

Sam’s body collapsed to the ground, landing hard on the tiles. “What—” the man gasped, glancing up. “Dean? What just happened?”

Guilt squeezed at Dean’s insides as he stared down at Sam’s bewildered face. “Nothing good,” he said roughly, pulling his brother to his feet. “I’ve got to go.”

“Dean, wait.” Sam blocked him, determination warring with confusion in his eyes. “Something’s wrong with me, right? You’re not telling me something.”

Dean shook his head fiercely. “I can’t tell you, Sam,” he said roughly. “I just—I can’t. I have to go.”

“Dean—”

He pushed Sam aside, unable to meet his eyes. “I’m gonna fix this, Sammy, I swear, and I’ll tell you everything then, but I can’t right now. You’ve got to believe me, this is for the best. You need to trust me.”

“Dean, if there’s something wrong with me, I deserve to know!” Sam shouted.

God, this was going to absolutely gut Sam. “I’ll tell you as soon, as I can, Sammy. Just sit tight, and whatever you do, don’t go near Cas.”

“Cas? What does—Dean!” Sam yelled, but Dean ignored him, speeding out of the room, half-running back to his bedroom.

He knocked furiously on the door. “Cas, it’s me!” he shouted. “Let me in!”

The door swung open; wide blue eyes stared into his, haunted and tired. “You talked to Sam,” Castiel said quietly, letting him in. “What did he—”

“I’ll tell you everything as soon as I get this sorted out,” Dean said grimly, stepping over the threshold and locking the door behind him. “I need you to think, Cas. Are there any angels out there who aren’t angling to peel your face off? Any at all?”

Castiel frowned, worrying his already split lower lip. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Of the angels who allied with me in the past, many are dead, and the others are not what I would consider to be trusted friends.”

Dean cursed, slamming his fist into the door. “Anyone. Anyone at all.”

Castiel looked down, fisting his hands tightly in Dean’s blanket. “Inias seemed open to treating with me when we last spoke,” he said finally. “Or so I recall. I was not quite sane when we last interacted.”

The angel dude from the hospital when they had first met Kevin. Dean vaguely remembered him; he was going to have to take the risk. Gritting his teeth, he clasped his hands in front of him, struggling to capture the mindset he had always held when he had prayed in the past. “Inias, angel guy who I met once, this is Dean Winchester,” he forced out, glancing around the room. In front of him, Cas paled, but said nothing. “I need your help. There’s a bunker in Lebanon, Kansas. Meet me here. I need someone to fix Sam. If you do this, I will owe you. Please. This is important.” He bowed his head, adrenaline thrumming through his veins.

“Dean.” Castiel’s voice trembled slightly. “What do you need an angel for?”

Dean swallowed hard. “It’s not Sam who’s been attacking you,” he said roughly. “I can’t tell you what is. But I promised that I’d fix this, and damnit, I’m keeping that promise!”

Castiel nodded, staring at the floor. “I trust you, Dean,” he said softly.

“Good.” Dean stalked over to his dresser and pulled out a T-shirt and jeans, tossing them at the other man. “Get dressed. We’re going to wait outside and see if this Inias shows up.”

Castiel allowed the sheet to fall, exposing tan skin riddled with angry red marks. Dean turned away, guilt and anger battling for dominance in his mind. He had allowed this to happen, and there was no taking it back, but he would be damned if he wasn’t going to put it right.

0o0o0o0o0

The evening air was cool on Castiel’s skin, fresh and damp as he stood with Dean outside the bunker. Dean had offered to bring the Impala up from the garage as protection from the elements, but Castiel enjoyed the cleansing wash of light rain over his skin, soaking through his shirt to soothe his battered flesh. Dean was silent, pacing back and forth, his presence a soothing balm. The heft of his angel blade was calming, a firm reminder that even if Dean’s prayers had reached the wrong angel, even if Inias was set on retrieving Castiel’s head, he had a fighting chance. Strangely, Dean had told him that if Sam came outside looking for him, he should stab him in the leg. It seemed that Dean was convinced that whatever had attacked Castiel was of a supernatural persuasion; he hoped his friend was right. The idea that it was not Sam who had so brutally attacked him was a strange sort of comfort.

He did wish that Dean would speak, or even look at him. The man steadfastly refused to tell him what he thought was controlling Sam, or why an angel was necessary. Castiel knew he could rule out a demon, or a vengeful spirit; Dean could handle those with ease even on his worst of days. No, whatever this was, it was powerful enough to frighten the most capable hunter God’s earth had ever seen. Castiel shuddered to think of such a thing.

Hours passed, and the light drizzle cleared into a murky fog, damp and humid, sticking to his skin. Increasingly tense, he resisted the urge to join Dean in pacing a path in front of the bunker. He wondered if Sam—no, whatever was in Sam—had realized that they were no longer inside. Perhaps he assumed that Dean and Castiel had run off on some hunt. He hoped that was the case; he did not relish the idea that the creature would come looking for him.

Wheels crunched over gravel and headlights pierced through the dim, gloomy fog. Castiel straightened, tensing slightly; Dean ceased his motions, fingering his jacket pocket. He had drawn an angel banishing sigil on a scrap of paper before leaving the bunker, just in case something went wrong. Castiel was comforted to know that Dean was thinking ahead, but surely it wouldn’t be necessary. Most of Heaven might be out for his blood, but he had to have one or two scattered allies still remaining.

The dusty Ford Explorer slowed steadily to a halt, parking several yards from the bunker. Castiel swallowed down trepidation as a well-dressed man stepped out of the vehicle and made his way over to them, face set to an impassive expression. From what he could pick out from scattered memories of madness and feverish thoughts, the man resembled Inias’s last vessel. He wished that he could still see his brother’s true face; even if he had chosen poorly and the angel was intent on doing him harm, the familiarity of his kin would surely be a comfort.

“Dean Winchester,” the man said, stopping several feet short of them. His eyes widened as he turned his face towards Cas, taking in his all too human visage. “Castiel?” he asked, taking a step forward. “You escaped the reapers?”

Castiel winced. “Not entirely unscathed,” he remarked, mind flashing back to April.

“You’re Inias?” Dean asked, cutting him off before he could say anything else. Inias inclined his head, watching the man carefully. “Good.” Dean glanced towards the bunker. “Listen, my brother—he’s in a bad way. Dying. And he’s being kept alive, but the—the person in him’s gone completely off the reservation. He’s been using my brother’s body to hurt Cas.”

Inias frowned, glancing at Castiel. “You wish me to heal your brother and deal with the one inside him?” he asked slowly, his tone betraying none of the thoughts Castiel knew were running through his head. Inias had always been particularly measured, weighing his actions with a single minded logic, though never to the point of betraying orders. With any luck, he was not part of a faction that would prevent him from providing assistance. “That is a weighty request.”

“I figured.” Dean scuffed a single booted foot across the ground, clearly holding back agitation. “Look, if you can do this, I’ll owe you one. You know I’m good for that.” He glanced up at the angel, eyes glinting with determination. “We’ve got Kevin hitting the angel tablet, looking for a way to reverse this mess that’s got you stuck here. I don’t know what else you’d want from me, but as long as you don’t want me to hand you Cas or my brother, I’ll do anything.”

“I would not ask that of you.” Inias tore his gaze from Castiel to address Dean properly. “I will take it on faith that you will assist me if I need it. The host is—divided.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “I have allied myself with a group intent on peacefully coexisting with humanity until the time comes when we can return home. I do not believe that it will offend your moral sensibilities to assist us in battle against Bartholomew when the time comes.”

“That’s the guy who sent the reapers after Cas?” Dean snorted. “Yeah, he’s got it coming to him. So you’ll help?”

“I will help,” Inias agreed, “though my talents have never lain towards healing. At the very least, I can ensure that your brother does not die, and purge whatever force has overcome him.”

Dean swallowed hard, turning his face so that Castiel could not see his expression. “And if I told you that the thing in him is an angel?”

Castiel felt his heart stutter to a stop, icy horror clenching at his insides. Surely he had misheard, or Dean had misspoken. It was impossible that an angel, that one of his  _siblings,_ would terrorize him the way this creature had. It was unthinkable! For an angel to descend to base human passion was rare enough, had been a source of shame for Castiel for the first several years of his association with Dean. But to not only surrender to those passions, but to turn them into weapons of torment and violation?

If Inias was fazed by Dean’s words, his perfectly impassive face masked it. “Angels have been battling with impunity since the fall,” he said, a touch of sadness coloring his voice. “I have slain more of my brethren over these past months than I had in millennia. It will grieve me to end the life of yet another, but the protection of humanity was my father’s prime directive.” He glanced at Castiel. “You have no more grace, brother. You too fall under our protection—or you should. As does Sam.”

Dean nodded. “Good. He’s inside,” he said abruptly, turning on his heel and heading towards the bunker.

Castiel caught up with Dean, his insides twisting. “You didn’t mean it,” he said softly, pleading. “You were simply ensuring that Inias would be prepared to battle anything, right?”

Dean ducked his head, fumbling the door open. “Come on,” he said, deliberately walking past Cas and into the bunker.

Castiel waited for Inias to pass, loathe to run into Sam, the creature inside him, without protection. With Dean and Inias ahead of him, he felt marginally safe re-entering the bunker. Every sense alert for the heavy sound of Sam’s footsteps, he descended the stairs, forcing himself to keep a step back, to not press against the warm reassurance of Dean’s back.

They nearly made it to the hall before Sam appeared, his eyes narrowed, flashing as he took in Inias. “Dean,” he said, his voice low and menacing. Not Sam, then. “I told you what would happen if you told Castiel about me.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t,” Dean growled, his low voice shaking with ill-concealed fury. “I just threw a line down prayer channel, and look who showed up.”

Castiel caught a glimpse of Inias’s face, twisted with sadness, as the angel stepped forward. “Ezekiel,” he said quietly. “Brother, you have truly fallen farther than the rest of us, if these are the depths to which you have sunk.”

It couldn’t be. Castiel stared at Sam’s face, wishing more than ever that he could see the angel within. Camael, maybe, or Hadraniel, neither of whom he had ever considered friends, but one of his own former soldiers? S—Ezekiel caught his gaze, a smirk playing across his face.

“And whose fault is it that I fell in the first place?” he asked, eyes roving over Castiel’s body. “Surely you know that all I have done to Castiel is true benevolence in comparison to the revenge of the rest of the host.”

“And Sam Winchester?” Inias asked, his blade sliding from his sleeve, landing firmly in his palm.

Ezekiel tore his gaze from Castiel to Inias, raising an eyebrow at the blade. “You wish to fight me, brother?” he asked softly. “Really? Over this?”

“Stow the freaking soap opera,” Dean muttered, sidling up beside Cas. “Give me your blade,” he murmured, his fingertips touching Cas’s.

Castiel clenched his fist around the hilt of his blade. “If he attacks, he’ll come for me,” he replied softly. “You don’t need to worry,” he said, cutting off Dean before he could argue. “I will not kill Sam in fending him off.”

“As good as it has been to see you again, brother, I made a promise to Dean.” Castiel’s attention snapped back to Ezekiel, who had taken a step back, puffing himself up; for a moment, Castiel could swear that he saw the true immensity of the angel before him. Cold dread washed through him; he opened his mouth to cry out, but his throat locked, effectively silencing him. “We will meet again, Castiel, and soon.”

“Sam!” Dean screamed as his brother’s eyes began to glow, intense and bright, white light spreading through his pores, spilling out his nostrils and mouth. Castiel clapped a hand over Dean’s eyes and turned his face, squeezing his eyes shut as brightness ripped through his closed lids. His ears rang as Ezekiel said something, loud and thundering and incomprehensible to human ears, and then a heavy presence brushed past him, slamming him backwards. His blade clattered to the floor as his hand fell slack, and then the presence was gone, the room ringing silent in Ezekiel’s wake.

A low groan tore his attention to Sam, huddled feebly on the floor. Blood trickled from his mouth, bright red and viscous, falling in a steady drip to the floor. “Sam,” he whispered, stepping forward.

“Sammy!” Dean pushed past him, hurrying to his brother’s side and kneeling beside the prone figure. “Heal him,” the man ordered, his voice cracking, his gaze fixed on Sam. “Inias!”

“I will lose Ezekiel if I do not go after him now,” Inias warned.

“Fuck Ezekiel,” Dean snarled, grasping at Sam’s face.

Inias glanced at Castiel, who nodded. “We can handle Ezekiel if he returns,” he said heavily, taking a few steps forward and crouching beside Dean. The man shook beside him, cradling Sam’s wan body in his arms, seemingly oblivious to everything else.

Inias leaned forward and pressed a palm to Sam’s face. The angel’s brow furrowed in concentration, intense and nervous as he focused on the broken body. “He will live,” he said finally, drawing back, “but he needs rest. It will be months before he is fully healed, at a conservative estimate. I will go after Ezekiel now.” He nodded at Dean, who glanced up, relieved. “We will find a way to locate you when the time comes for you to repay me.”

“Got it,” Dean said absently, waving the angel away. Castiel offered Inias a smile before turning his attention from the departing angel back to Sam.

“Dean?” Dry and raspy, the croak that emerged from Sam’s throat was barely recognizable as the man’s voice. “Wha happen’d? Was jus’ in th’ lib’ry w’Kevin…”

“It—” Dean swallowed hard, tossing a hopeless glance in Cas’s direction.

“You need to tell him, Dean,” Castiel said steadily, his chest a measure too tight. The hell that the past several weeks had been for him would not be over until Sam knew what had happened. Nothing could be solved if the secrets and lies continued.

Dean nodded, his adam’s apple bobbing as he took a deep breath. “You came out of the trials real bad, Sam,” he said, easing his brother’s head onto his lap. “Real bad. Doctors couldn’t fix you, so I—I prayed. And the angel who showed up, I tricked you into letting him in.” He winced, dropping his head, avoiding eye contact.

“You let ‘n angel ‘n me?” Sam slurred, half-focused eyes staring up at Dean.

Dean shuddered, nodding. “Yeah. I did. He lied to me, Sammy. Said he was gonna fix you… He didn’t. Left you broken and dying and used your body to go after Cas.”

“Cas?” Wearily, Sam turned his face to Cas, eyes drooping with exhaustion. “What’d I do t’you?”

Castiel swallowed hard, taking in the crumpled face that had haunted his nightmares. “It was not you, Sam,” he said quietly, placing a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. “I know that now. And I will not hold you accountable for his actions.”

“Sorry,” Sam murmured, his eyes falling shut. “So sorry. Couldn’t ev’n do th’ trials right…”

“Come on,” Dean grunted, sliding his arms under Sam’s limp form and hefting him off the ground. “Gonna put you to bed, get you rested up. We’ll deal with this if that bastard comes sniffing around again.”

Castiel hovered over Dean’s shoulder, following closely behind him. They laid Sam to rest in his room, on the very mattress where earlier that day Castiel had lain restrained and violated. Even knowing it was not Sam who had assaulted him, he could not hold back a shiver at the sight of the man on the bed. The nightmare was over, or paused for the time being, he reminded himself. Ezekiel was still out there, but he would not have to face him alone. Dean would be there to assist him this time, and just knowing that he would not be left isolated and vulnerable gave him strength.

0o0o0o0o0

It was a few weeks before Sam was well enough to leave his bed. Castiel allowed Dean to take the brunt of Sam’s care, loathe to enter the room that still haunted his dreams. He wished that he could simply move forward and allow himself to slip back into an easy dynamic with the brothers, but such a task was proving to be difficult. Without seeing Sam, it was hard to remember that the man had truly been a victim as much as he in the situation. Dean refused to meet his eyes when they spoke, guilt an ever-present cloud over his face. At times, Castiel wanted to shake the man. He was the one who had been harmed by Ezekiel’s actions, he wanted to argue, not Dean. He should not have to spend time reassuring the man that it was not his fault, that he had done the best he could, that sometimes there was no stopping a vengeful angel.

They stayed in the bunker those few weeks, consuming lore and taking Kevin’s nearly indecipherable translations to Crowley when the need arose. Castiel spent more time in the firing range than ever before, steadily working his way to smaller and smaller targets until he was sure that he could hit the bulls eye on a square the size of a sheet of paper every time.

He was in the firing range when he finally encountered Sam again. Paler than Castiel had ever seen him and thin as a reed, atrophied muscles shaking as he hefted a lightweight pistol, Castiel thought that even at the height of the trials Sam had appeared in better health. Cautiously, he selected a high-powered semi-automatic from the rack on the wall and waited, certain that Sam would tire soon.

He was not wrong. After only a few shots, Sam lowered the pistol with shaking hands and turned around, mopping sweat from his brow. “Hey, Cas,” he said hoarsely, fumbling the pistol back into his belt holster.

“Hello, Sam.” Castiel inclined his head in acknowledgement. “You are feeling better, I see.”

Sam’s lips twisted in what may have been a smile. It more resembled a grimace, Castiel thought. “Honestly, I feel like I got hit by a car and landed in front of a bus, but I can stand at least,” he said, leaning forward and bracing his hands on his thighs. “I’ll live. Guess it’s better than I was.”

“I agree,” Cas said, a frown dragging at his lips.

Silence pervaded the room, stretching on far too long for Castiel’s liking. He shifted, discomfort gnawing at his insides. “What did I do to you?” Sam asked finally, looking at Cas from behind lank strands of unwashed hair. Guilt shone clear in his expression, his pale face seeming at least a decade older than it had only a few weeks ago. “I knew you were avoiding me, and Dean said the angel went after you. Was I—it—threatening you?”

He wasn’t sure that he was ready to have this conversation. “Yes,” he said after a long pause. “He was quite intent on making me suffer.”

“Jesus,” Sam muttered, straightening. “I’m sorry, Cas.”

“It was not your fault,” Castiel replied carefully, shifting the gun in his hands.

“I guess I don’t get—I mean, I’m glad he didn’t—why didn’t he kill you? Was he trying to convert you to a side?”

Castiel hesitated. “No,” he answered. “That was not the nature of his actions.”

Sam looked as though he wanted to ask more, and Cas was not sure that he could answer. To lay bare his soul before the body of the one who had violated him—never mind that Sam had been as much a victim as he—was too much. “You should see if Kevin needs help in the library,” he said before Sam could speak, pulling a pair of sound-muffling headphones from a small footlocker by the wall and snapping them into place. Shooting things would make him feel better. He was sure of it.

0o0o0o0o0

_He couldn’t breathe for the body on top of him, pressing him into a soft mattress, hard and strong and unyielding. Silently, his vocal cords frozen with terror, he pushed at his attacker, fingernails scrabbling desperately over sweat-slick flesh. A large hand wrapped around his wrists, pulling them up over his head, leaving them pinned by some unseen force. Held immobile, helpless to even scream, he was forced to endure as lips descended towards the apex of his thighs, biting and sucking a burning trail over his skin._

_-Beautiful- Sam said, voice dark and husky, thick with lust. –I think I’ll take you with me, Castiel.- That’s right, it wasn’t Sam—was it? He couldn’t remember. Did it matter? Hot hands palmed his ass, holding him open and exposed, a vulnerable target as Not-Sam buried his face between his cheeks, wet tongue licking at his entrance, squirming muscle sliding inside, filling him with sickening heat._

_Not-Sam lifted his face, eyes shining with white, angelic light. Castiel recoiled, fighting his invisible bonds as Not-Sam leered at him, ancient gaze drinking his body in. –You’re mine, Castiel,- the angel crooned, trailing Sam’s large hand over Castiel’s flaccid cock. –You can’t hide from me forever.-_

Castiel sat up, struggling to breathe. Sweat trickled into his eyes; annoyed, he wiped away the droplets. His stomach churned as he fought to regulate his breath, air cold and heavy in his lungs. Hopefully it was just a dream. Hopefully it wasn’t a dream sent by Ezekiel, trying to frighten him with a threatening message.

Desolate, Castiel glanced towards the empty heavens, silently pleading that his absent Father would return and save him from this living Hell. He didn’t expect an answer—why would God suddenly manifest now?—but the silence still hurt.

The room was tainted by a harsh chill. Castiel wondered if he would ever again feel safe in his bed. He threw the blankets from his body and rose, his feet mindlessly propelling him towards Dean’s room. Ezekiel had never attacked him in Dean’s room—it was a haven, a place safe from nightmares.

Castiel knocked insistently on the door, shifting restlessly. His skin itched, crawling with the memory of unwelcome hands. He swallowed hard, raised his hand to knock again, and nearly smacked Dean in the face as the door opened suddenly.

“Cas?” Light hair rumpled, bright green eyes bleary from slumber, Dean blinked sleepily up at him. “What’re you doing up?”

Castiel swallowed hard. It seemed silly now, to come crawling to Dean over a nightmare. “I apologize. I should not have woken you,” he said, turning to leave.

“Wait.” Castiel froze in his tracks. Behind him, Dean sighed; the door creaked as the other man pulled it further open. “You look like crap. What’s wrong?”

Everything, Castiel wanted to say. Nothing was right, and it was entirely his fault. He caused the angels to fall. He had driven Ezekiel to insanity. Whatever ills befell him, he had brought them upon himself. “It’s nothing. I slept poorly, and did not think that you would still be asleep yourself.”

Dean shifted audibly. Castiel turned to look at the man, taking in the dark circles under Dean’s eyes, his waxy, wasted complexion. It seemed that Dean was handling his own troubles just as poorly as Castiel.

“Slept badly, like, nightmares?" Dean asked carefully. Castiel nodded, and Dean's expression crumpled. “Was it… You know.” Dean swallowed hard, staring at the ground. “Him?”

For a man so determined to hide his own emotions, Dean could be alarmingly perceptive. “Yes,” Castiel said finally. “But I should not have woken you. It was foolish of me.”

Dean sighed, rubbing his eyes. “No, it wasn’t,” he muttered, ducking his head even further. “I—shit, Cas, this wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t let Ezekiel into Sam. You got hurt, and that’s on me.”

“No, it isn’t.” This wasn’t what he had wanted at all. He’d just wanted to slip into Dean’s room, to take a much-needed break from his own internal turmoil. “If anything, it’s on me. Had I not caused the angels to fall, anyone would have been able to heal Sam. And Ezekiel—” he gulped, struggling to put his thoughts into words. “He went insane when he fell. That is my fault. He would not have taken advantage of Sam, even had he been the angel who heeded your prayer.”

“Damnit, Cas.” Dean glanced up, opening his mouth to speak, and froze. His eyes wandered past Castiel, fixing on a point directly behind him.

Slowly, Cas turned, his heart plummeting as he came face to face with Sam. If Dean appeared worn and exhausted, then Sam was even more so, his face too thin, his frame nearly skeletal. If the circles under Dean’s eyes were dark, then the underside of Sam’s eyes were swathed with black, and he steadied himself against the wall as though standing was a trial itself. “Stop keeping things from me,” Sam ordered quietly, his voice stronger, more authoritative, than Cas would have expected. “I know that angel did some crap in my body. I know he was threatening you, Cas.” He met Castiel’s eyes with a steady gaze, shining with tired determination. “What did I do to you?”

“Nothing,” Castiel replied, taking an instinctive step back towards Dean. Sam was safe, he knew that intellectually, but Dean’s warmth behind him was a steady comfort, grounding him. He would take the comfort as it was.

Sam’s shoulders slumped. “Okay, fine. What did the angel do to you when he was in my body?”  Sam did not sound as steady as he had before; a lost, plaintive tone crept into his voice, the barest edges of desperation coloring his words. “I think I deserve to know.”

He couldn’t tell Sam. How could he just open himself up, bare his raw human soul, and let Sam know the atrocities that his body had been used to commit? But at the same time, maybe Sam was right. Castiel was not the only one whose being had been hurt by Ezekiel’s actions.

Without thinking, Castiel reached for Dean, circling his fingers loosely around the man’s wrist. Dean shifted his arm, sliding Castiel’s fingers down towards his palm and entwining their hands. Castiel took a deep breath. He could do this. He had to. Sam deserved to know. “Ezekiel committed attacks on my person,” he said quietly, averting his gaze. He did not want to see Sam’s face. “Attacks of a sexual nature.”

Sam exhaled sharply. For a moment, there was silence, and then Sam slammed his fist into the wall. Castiel jumped, his eyes flying up, searching Sam’s face, but the other man was not looking at him. He stared at the wall, face stony, unreadable. “Damnit,” Sam whispered, a short, anguished exclamation.

Dean squeezed Cas’s hand, for whose comfort Castiel was not sure. Maybe it was for them both. Sam took a deep breath, a muscle in his throat twitching sporadically. “Damnit!” he exclaimed, more powerfully this time. Miserable, haunted eyes flicked towards Cas, and then Sam looked down, staring at the floor. “Cas, I—I didn’t—” He took a deep breath, burying his face in his hands. “Why didn’t you say something?” he asked finally, his voice cracking. “I’d have—I don’t know, I’d have done  _something.”_ Shakily, without lowering his hands, Sam leaned against the wall, head lolling with the motion. Castiel tugged his hand free from Dean and stepped forward, laying a gentle, steadying hand on Sam’s shoulder.

Sam looked up at him before averting his gaze. His shoulder shook slightly under Castiel’s hand, from exhaustion or shock the man was not certain. “How can you stand to look at me?” he asked, his voice cracking.

It was a valid question, and one for which Castiel had no easy answer. Seeing Sam was still difficult, but if nothing else, his reaction here in the hall cemented the truth in Castiel’s mind: Sam Winchester was not to blame for what Ezekiel had done to him. “It wasn’t you,” Cas said quietly, gently prying Sam away from the wall and folding him into a loose hug. Sam’s frame was too small under his hands, fragile, even breakable, and Castiel steered him into Dean’s room to help him sit on the bed. “And I have wronged you too, Sam. I assumed, before I knew about Ezekiel, that something had changed in you, and treated you as such. That was an error on my part.”

“Yeah, well, not something I can blame you for,” Sam said bitterly. “That’s why you were avoiding me? Why you were tense around me? Because I—because I was hurting you?”

“Ezekiel. Not you,” Castiel corrected gently.

Sam shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I should have figured it out.”

“Sammy.” Dean had slipped into the room after them, it seemed; he sat on the bed and laid a hand on his brother’s back, rubbing soothing circles. “You couldn’t have known. If this is on anyone, it’s on me for letting that dick in you. Don’t start,” he said as Castiel opened his mouth. “Don’t you dare start with blaming yourself again. This ain’t on you either.”

Castiel shook his head, not entirely willing to agree with Dean. At the same time, it was as though a weight was easing from his chest, trickling away and fading to nothingness, leaving him lighter than he had been in months. “Very well,” he said, catching Dean’s gaze. “But you, too, should not assign blame to yourself. This was Ezekiel’s doing, none of ours.” Perhaps someday he would even believe it.

Sam looked up, catching Castiel’s eyes, his gaze burning with intense determination. “We’re adding a priority to our overflowing list,” he said, his voice trembling with ill-concealed rage. “As soon as I’m on my feet again, we’re going to hunt that son of a bitch down. You’ve got first dibs on killing him, but if you can’t get to him in time, he’s  _mine.”_

For a moment, Sam looked like his old self; the image was broken as a wracking cough tore from Sam’s chest, sending him doubling over. Dean rubbed Sam’s back as Castiel laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, waiting for him to ride out the fit. “I suppose that gives us time to plan,” he remarked dryly as Sam gasped for breath. “You will not be fit to fight for some time.”

“Don’t remind me,” Sam grumbled. He pulled away from Dean’s touch and peeled Castiel’s hand off his shoulder, rising on shaking legs. “I’m going back to bed. Look up more ways to take down angels in the morning. A bunker this comprehensive, there’s got to be something we don’t know.”

“Yeah, okay. Go get your beauty sleep before I have to scrape you off the floor,” Dean ordered, forcing a smile. Sam shot him a disgusted look and made his way to the door, pushing it shut behind him.

Alone with Dean, Castiel was not sure entirely what to say. He settled for sitting next to the man and allowing his head to drop against Dean’s firm, broad chest, the quiet thump of Dean’s heart a soothing rhythm. Gently, as though worried that Castiel would spook, Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel’s waist and squeezed, holding him close in his warm embrace.

He could fall asleep here, lulled to restfulness in Dean’s arms. Castiel sighed, and allowed himself the luxury of rubbing his face against Dean’s chest, quietly reveling in the security the closeness offered. “You’re okay with going after Ezekiel?” Dean asked after a short silence, his words hardly more than a whisper. “I’d be the first to say the dude has it coming, but I mean, he is your family…”

“He is,” Castiel replied softly. “And that makes this all the worse. Ezekiel must be brought down.”

Dean was silent for another long moment. Perhaps Castiel imagined it, perhaps it was the closeness or wishful thinking, but he was sure he felt Dean’s lips briefly graze his temple. “Okay,” Dean said finally, squeezing him gently. “Then we’ll go after him.” It wasn’t his imagination. Dean’s lips were close enough that Castiel could feel them turn up in a slight smile. “Two Winchesters and one ex-angel up against a lunatic with a fancy sword. He doesn’t stand a chance.”

Castiel could not help but smile himself. “You might well be correct,” he said, closing his eyes and relaxing. Dean was right. Two Winchesters and an ex-angel—a new hunter—up in a grudge match against a rogue angel. The odds were terrible, but when had they ever been granted good odds in such a situation?

When they came for him, Ezekiel would not stand a chance.

 


End file.
